


Une vie moins ordinaire: mardi

by AuKestrel



Series: Sur une journée donnée (On any given day) [3]
Category: Buried On Sunday (1992), My Life as a Dog (TV)
Genre: 6 Degrees of Due South, Canada, Crossover, Graphic Description, M/M, Slash, Supernatural Elements, Wordcount: 30.000-50.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-05
Updated: 2011-12-05
Packaged: 2017-10-26 22:45:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 40,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/288709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuKestrel/pseuds/AuKestrel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m on solid ground there,” he says cheerfully. “At least there’s no way Johnny can be mistaken for a witch.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. mardi: matin

**Author's Note:**

> **mardi chansons**  
>  Life Less Ordinary, Carbon Leaf; God, Sean MacDonald; Afternoons And Coffeespoons, Crash Test Dummies; Something About You, Five For Fighting; Gates Of The Country (Acoustic Demo), Black Lab; Fall At Your Feet, Neil Finn; God in my bed (live), K's Choice; Birds & Ships (demo), Billy Bragg & Wilco; Believe, K's Choice; Keep Myself Awake, Black Lab; Innocent, Our Lady Peace; Aunt Martha's Sheep, Dick Nolan; One Prairie Outpost, Carbon Leaf; Ten Million Years, Black Lab

## v. mardi: matin

When Johnny wakes again, the room is grey instead of black: pretty close to dawn, then, one way or the other. He’s (still) wrapped in Gus’ arms; he doesn’t remember moving, let alone dreaming, and he probably didn’t do either, but he does remember Gus warm and solid against him.

He stretches, carefully but luxuriously. Every muscle in his body is relaxed and humming, and it’s almost better than after a sauna. Gus grunts and pulls Johnny in closer again, tucking his nose between Johnny’s neck and the pillow and breathing in deep; and Johnny wraps his arms around Gus’, holding on and letting his mind wander.

He hasn’t felt this peaceful for a long time; and he wonders if it’s Gus, or if it’s sex, or both, or something else.

And it doesn’t really matter, after all, so he just smiles and lets the feeling run through him, like the breeze on the lake on a summer day. Once in a while he pokes at himself, sorting through the feelings in his head, turning them over and wondering at himself, and smiling at nothing.

He’s not sure, for instance, why sex with Gus, why – well, be honest – why  _fucking_  Gus, holding Gus in his hand, pushing into Gus’ body… he’s not sure why he feels more like a man now than he ever has before. Is it because Gus is hard where Johnny is? Or because Gus can take it, and Johnny can take it, and he can be… himself with Gus? Or is it that… that Gus was right, before, when he said that Johnny’d been – been gay, or, uh, not entirely straight, for (maybe) years?

Or is that not really what “gay” is at all and he’s just flying blind, as usual… is it just that he likes it, gets off on Gus getting off on him, and… is it the same thing or not really?

There’s a sudden pang in his chest: he could have asked Sigrid, and she might have known, or she might not have known, but she’d have said so, either way, and she wouldn’t have laughed.

Truth to tell, he’d always hoped for twins even though he knew that Sigrid was the one who’d have them, if anyone did; but he’d always hoped that if he had children they’d have what he had, their Icelandic heritage, their prairie birthrights, and… the other part of themselves, the part that didn’t need words, or anything else, to  _know_.

But he can hear Sigrid still, sometimes, and he strains to hear her now: what would she say, if he asked her now, if he could? What… what would he ask her?

 _

Am I gay?

_

 _Did I love Zoë?_

 _Did I want Zoë or… did I want this, and Zoë … knew it somehow?_

Sigrid’s snort sounds so close Johnny almost opens his eyes, but he knows if he does she won’t be there, or she’ll be gone.

Sex with Zoë was good, and sometimes, especially in the beginning, sometimes it was  _reall_ y good. He tries to remember that, hold onto that.

But this… with Gus… if he’d tried harder, would it have been like this with Zoë? Was it really Zoë’s fault Johnny knew almost nothing when they got married? Hell, it’s not like he knows that much  _now_. Zoë knew more, and was pretty patient with him, all things considered; but was that really fair, after all?

Or was Johnny meant for this, meant for… well, for Gus, just for the sake of argument – and was Zoë, maybe, meant for Louis all along? Maybe she couldn’t help it any more than Johnny can help this, any more than Sigrid could help it (he supposes) with Max.

Is it a once in a lifetime thing?

He wants to ask Gus what God would say about that, about love, about there being someone for everyone; he wants to ask Gus if Louis could have been Zoë’s someone, and vice versa, or is Johnny just hiding, ducking responsibility the way…

Sigrid would have known; at least, she’d have known if Max was a once in a lifetime thing. And Max might have been, for Sigrid; they had Eric, and he’s not sure if it’s Lutheran or Anglican or  _what_ , at this point, but they were blessed; and he and Zoë weren’t. And he’s not sure if it works that way, either, if God knows, or cares, because there are kids starving, dying, in Africa, in other places, and… does He care or doesn’t he?

But that doesn’t make sense either, not really; and he’s getting lost again in his own head.

God is, or could be, in everything, all the time… in Johnny, last night (okay, this morning), and in Gus too, and in Johnny inside Gus; and that’s a lot easier to think about, to understand, than wondering if Eric’s a blessing, a blessing in the church sense. He knows Eric’s a blessing in any other sense, every other sense.

He pushes back against Gus, hoping Gus will tighten his arms; and Gus does, murmuring something Johnny can’t quite hear, but it’s okay: Gus is  _there_.

But his brain won’t let it go: what if he’d been married, still, and met Gus? What if Zoë was home, right now, with one or two kids, and Johnny’d taken the job in Winnipeg, what if he’d been here and met Gus by the canal… would he be here now, regardless of Zoë? If there is just one, and Gus (for instance) is it, for Johnny, wouldn’t he still be here?  _Shouldn’t_  he still be here? And isn’t that, what did Gus call it, isn’t that moral relativism; and isn’t that the whole reason God made the rules to begin with?

Part of his mind is trying to dismiss it: this is pointless, and if Sigrid was here that’s what she’d be saying. Sigrid never looked back, not that Johnny ever knew, anyway; she always looked ahead, never down, never back.

And, really, Johnny says to her, feeling lonely and wistful, he never has either, not until… not since he found the note, really, and spent the next half hour in blind panic, wondering what he’d  _done_ , trying to remember anything,  _anything_  over the past ten years that–

And then the phone’d rung, and he’d known it wasn’t Eric, because he was still at school, and he’d hoped it was Zoë, that it was a… mistake or that she’d changed her mind or… that it was Louis, even.

And when he’d burned the letter, not long after, before Eric got home, before anyone, ever, could see it, he burned his fingers too, not really on purpose but because he hadn’t wanted to let the last piece fall into the sink, to be washed away.

It was ten years of his life that he doesn’t even know, any more, if they were real; and after he’d rinsed the blackened curls of ash and paper down the drain, he’d run the disposal for a long time, like somehow the paper would come back up, somehow, someone would  _know_ , someone would tell Eric; and then he’d left for the hospital.

He doesn’t remember crying, but the wind was icy on his face when he’d gone outside: he remembers that, still, how it was so sharp it took his breath away and he couldn’t  _breathe_  for a few seconds, scary seconds; and he remembers driving slow, too slow, because if anything happened to him who would Eric have then?

He’d told Eric, that time: he’d learned, from Sigrid’s death, one more thing, one last thing from her. And if he still doesn’t know why he never visited her – people think they’ll live forever, maybe – he knows, too, that Sigrid never held a grudge about it: she wasn’t that way. Eric’s not, either: it’s one of the things he loves about Eric, not just that he reminds Johnny of his mother but that Sigrid and Max had made such an… interesting person, an… individual, someone who belonged in their family, someone who belonged with them, someone who belonged to Gimli, even.

When Eric’s older Johnny’s already decided to give him the house: it’s a Jóhannsson house and it should be lived in by a Jóhannsson, and even if (when) Eric leaves Gimli, he can keep it for summer, and holidays; and maybe Eric won’t leave Gimli, or maybe he’ll have his own Jóhanssons to visit, or live there, someday. And it’s not like Johnny was planning to remarry, even before this, before Gus; after all, he hadn’t really seen it coming the first time.

His nose is stuffy and so is his head, between his eyes, hot and itchy: he’s held back tears too many times not to know the signs, and he hopes Gus stays asleep a while longer, hopes he can get back… whatever it was that he had, before this, when he first woke; and he wishes, again, he could just ask  _someone_  what the  _hell_  is going on with him. He really is between two worlds, like Gus said, but he’s starting to think he’s not just caught there, he’s stuck there, and he doesn’t know how, or why, or what he can do about it.

He takes a careful breath, then swallows hard, carefully, slowly, almost furtively pressing his fingertips against his eyes, but that just makes his head hurt more. He tries to move, but Gus holds him tighter, says his name in a formless mutter that just about sends Johnny over the edge; and the last thing he needs, and Gus needs, is Gus, the non-morning person, waking up to find Johnny bawling in bed, especially after he– they…

“Bathroom,” he whispers: he couldn’t talk if he wanted to, barely holding on as it is. “Bathroom, Gus,” and Gus mumbles again, an impatient sound, but his arms loose Johnny and Johnny rolls out of bed fast.

He closes both doors, the one into the bathroom, and the one into the little dark room where the toilet is, and blows his nose violently, over and over, until his eyes are wet from the pressure behind them; and then he pinches himself on the wrist, right over the bone: after they moved to Winnipeg, Eric had several weeks of nightmares; when he started sleeping again, Johnny stopped, waking up with his face wet two and three times a night. After the second time, after Eric had to wake him, Johnny’d set the alarm for every two hours. And sometimes, still, when the alarm went off, his face was wet.

As far as he knows, Eric never caught on to the alarm clock system; and after a few months it’d mostly stopped. Since Eric never said anything, Johnny knows that Eric figured it was leaving Gimli, losing Zoë, and that was  _fine_ , that was exactly what Johnny’d hoped.

Zoë’s death was really just… convenient: all he’d had to deal with was sympathy, not explanations.

And if  _that’s_  not wicked, if  _that’s_  not buying him a ticket straight to hell (like he’s not already on the express), he doesn’t know what the hell “wicked” means.

He ends up with dry heaves and a cold sweat, sitting bare-assed on the tile floor; and if God does listen to him he’d thank Him that Gus isn’t a morning person, because this would be just about impossible to explain in any way that would make Gus, or any sane person, want to do more than say, “Get lost, loser,” or maybe, if they were feeling sorry enough for his pathetic ass, “See you around, fuck-up.”

Yeah, he’d fucked it up with Zoë, whether or not he was the right or wrong person for her, whether or not she was the right or wrong person for him, and  _that_  had been  _normal_ , he’d had _everything_  going for him there. There’s no way he won’t fuck it up with Gus, no  _way_ , no matter what Gus said, or says, or thought, or thinks.

Three years ago he’d been someone else.

Three years ago life was good, life was  _fun_. If he’d known, famous last words, if he’d known, what would he have done differently – besides  _every_ thing? He’d have celebrated life, every day, he’d have stopped even more often to look at the dew on the grass, to watch the clouds roll by, to enjoy the warmth of the sun in the summer, the crisp air of autumn, the sheer icy beauty of winter, the green and brown tang of spring.

He’d even have enjoyed the two months of  _mud_.

His hands and arms are trembling; he takes a deep breath and closes the lid of the toilet, resting his arms on it so they stop shaking, resting his head on his arms: he’s lightheaded but his neck is sore and it feels good not to have to hold his head up; and he can feel his stomach unclenching, the muscles relaxing.

He must have dozed off: the next thing he knows is the sensation of falling, and then his hand hits the tile as he catches himself. He’s freezing, no kidding, and his knees are stiff. He rubs them for a second so he can get up without falling on his ass.

The door squeaks when he opens it and it sounds unnaturally loud, but the other door’s still closed. There’s a wet washcloth in the sink and he stares at it for a few seconds: Gus? Cleaning up himself and – Johnny looks down, feels the heat rising to his face – and Johnny too, he guesses; and he blinks rapidly a few times. He rinses his mouth, glad he didn’t actually throw up, and tries to remember if there was soda in the refrigerator, something to settle his stomach. At least there’s water, he knows, and he slips out quietly, easing the door open with both hands.

Gus is still dead to the world, flat on his stomach, one arm across the empty space where Johnny was. There’s a bottle of water by the bed; he didn’t see it before, and there’s another prickle behind his eyes, that Gus thought of that.

He thinks Noelle must have been the one to break it off, from Gus’… well, from his attitude, more than anything; anyway, he’s not carrying a torch for her. If she did, she was stupid, is all Johnny can think.

He goes into the kitchen and looks in the fridge, where he finds a small can of Coke. A few sips ease his stomach, clear his mouth, and he takes a few more swallows, letting it settle.

He’s still freezing but moving around has helped get his blood stirred up. He feels bad about climbing back in with Gus, but worse about Gus waking up without him there: things are bad enough as it stands, because he doesn’t know what to do… next.

The sun’s up now: he stares at the pattern the blinds are making on the carpet while he finishes the soda, and then he puts both hands on the counter and stretches his back, and his legs; then, starting with his neck, consciously tries to relax, all the way down his back, his shoulders, his arms, his legs. He’s used to this too: the ibuprofen won’t stay down until some of the tension’s gone. He cracks his neck, then scrubs his hands through his hair, takes a deep breath and goes back into the bedroom.

Gus is still on his stomach; when Johnny climbs into bed, carefully, he doesn’t move at first, not even his arm, until Johnny touches it; then he says something, a string of syllables that makes no sense, and throws his arm across Johnny. Johnny, holding as still as he can, stares at the windows for a long time, until they blur and he can’t see them any more.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Gus is only a quarter aware of Johnny getting back into bed, and maybe a little more aware that he’s cold: aware enough to put an arm around him, pull the covers up, before he lets himself retreat into a deeper sleep again.

When he wakes next time, his arm’s still across Johnny, but Johnny’s perched at the edge of the bed, his body unnaturally straight, as if he didn’t want to move, or was afraid to move, but fell asleep despite that.

Gus slides an arm beneath and gathers him close; Johnny rolls partly on his side, and Gus kisses the back of his neck and breathes in deeply.

Johnny smells… wrong: sour or something; and when Gus raises his head to look more closely, he sees blue shadows under Johnny’s eyes; and when he leans in close to smell, to taste, the skin of Johnny’s face is… salty.

And although Johnny’s face is relaxed in sleep, it’s not  _relaxed_ , not like before, when he cleaned Johnny up and Johnny smiled; and Johnny’s body isn’t relaxed, either, not the way it was before, when Gus finally got back into bed.

He pulls Johnny closer, rocking him without really being aware of it, tucking Johnny’s head under his neck where Johnny can hear Gus’ pulse, Gus’ heartbeat, where Johnny can feel Gus’ life force, where Gus can give Johnny some of that life, some of that strength, even if that idea is more fanciful (and Eastern) than practical (and Western).

He wants to ask Johnny why, why and what: Zoë? Sigrid? Sin? Redemption? Homosexuality? God? All of the above or – from what he’s already seen of Johnny, it’s entirely possible – none of the above?

Somehow he doesn’t think Johnny broke down over the Leafs’ chances.

And how the hell did he sleep through it? He’s not normally a heavy sleeper, not that heavy; and he hadn’t even been drinking, not enough to matter.

Johnny heaves a deep sigh and turns all the way over onto his stomach, his face still turned toward Gus, his head resting on Gus’ arm. He looks more relaxed, and Gus feels fractionally better that Johnny needs him, or can be comforted by him, even if it’s just any touch and not necessarily Gus’.

Someone as tactile as Johnny would have found the past few years a living hell; and he waits again for the panic to strike him, for the need to breathe, alone, to hit him; and, again, it doesn’t.

He can give Johnny that, too, then, and apparently without even grudging it, which is good, because Johnny’d pick up on that, pick up on that in a heartbeat.

He leans in to kiss Johnny’s face again, and his lips are salty when he pulls back. He takes a deep breath and unclenches his hand, under Johnny’s neck, then smoothes his other hand through Johnny’s hair, like Johnny’s a cat. The side of Johnny’s mouth that he can see tilts a little, and even that makes Gus feel better.

No one as… incandescent as Johnny should carry so much pain inside.

He looks up at the ceiling, his jaw set, trying to regain the centre he’d found last night, when he hears a peculiar noise.

It takes a few seconds to identify Johnny’s phone, buzzing, on the kitchen counter.

It takes a few more to extricate himself from Johnny but all he can think is that Johnny’s been worried about Eric, and he makes it to the kitchen in three strides once he gets out of bed. But he’s not in time; the display flickers to “missed call” as he picks it up.

“Fuck,” he says under his breath, and looks over his shoulder; but Johnny’s still sleeping soundly.

He pulls on jeans, not bothering with underwear yet, and a t-shirt, and goes back to the kitchen to see if he can figure out Johnny’s coffee machine. If it was Eric, chances are he’ll try again.

The dishes are done: Johnny must have done them last night, or this morning; and again Gus wonders how he slept through all of it.

After a few fruitless minutes, he shelves the Johnny-coffee project and starts the electric coffee pot, then sits down at the table to puzzle out how to get Johnny’s coffee pot back together and where to put the coffee.

The cell phone buzzes again, making him jump, and he grabs at it. There’s a long string of numbers on the display: it must be overseas, must be Eric.

“Johnny’s cell phone,” he says quietly, flicking the cover open.

There’s a long pause; then a voice says uncertainly, “Johnny?” The connection is crackly but otherwise clear.

“You must be Eric,” Gus says. “I’m a friend of Johnny’s. He’s staying with me for a few days in Ottawa.”

There’s another pause and then Eric says, “Oh. I didn’t know Johnny knew anyone in Ottawa.”

Gus lets the smile creep into his voice: “Your aunt said exactly the same thing.”

And the ice is broken: Eric laughs, still uncertain, but definitely amused. “Are you from the NHL too? Is Johnny there?”

“Yeah, he’s here,” Gus says, disregarding the first question: that answer must (and will) come later, in person. “He’s still asleep; let me get him for you. Are you having a good time? Are you in – Singapore, is it?”

“Yeah, and it’s awesome,” Eric says fervently, and his enthusiasm takes Gus back more than a few years: he remembers, suddenly, the first time he crossed the Channel, and how that had been so much more exciting than the plane ride to London.

Johnny’s stirring: Gus hasn’t been particularly quiet since realizing it was Eric, and he’s glad that the sight of the phone in Gus’ hand brings a quick, heartfelt smile to Johnny’s face. “Eric,” Gus says to Johnny, then, to Eric, “It was nice to meet you, Eric; I hope I get to meet you in person some day.”

“Thanks,” Eric says, “me too.”

“Eric!” Johnny’s saying before he even gets the phone to his mouth. “Auntie Auntie’s not freaking out, she says; are you in Singapore? I figured you stopped somewhere…”

Gus goes back to the kitchen, slipping his loafers on while he scribbles a note to Johnny: “Getting breakfast – back soon!” He pulls his jacket on while he crosses back to the bed, handing the note to Johnny, unable to keep from touching Johnny’s hair again. Johnny looks up at him, one side of his mouth a little shaky, and Gus would swear, if he was that kind of romantic, that Johnny’s heart is in his eyes.

He gives Johnny a thumbs-up, feels his jacket pocket for the keycard, gets his wallet off the nightstand, and lets himself out.

It’s not that he thinks Johnny would object to his presence; but it has to be easier to talk to Eric without the presence of someone who’s, really, when all’s said and done, a stranger to the both of them.

He doesn’t know when Johnny’s birthday is; he doesn’t even know how old Johnny is, or what kind of music he listens to; or how he feels about the question of independence for Quebec; or why a tattoo at all, why that one?

He does know Johnny’s not a Leafs fan… that’s something, anyway.

He wishes he could find the shop Johnny must have found yesterday but that’s really not possible: he doubts he has Johnny’s apparent (indeed, professed) knack for landing on his feet.

He settles for a Second Cup down the street, getting Johnny a red-eye and himself a plain coffee. On his way back through the hotel, he remembers that they have something they call a continental breakfast and, in truth, it’s closer to the real thing than many places in North America.

Sure enough, they have croissants, butter and chocolate, and hard boiled eggs, so he gathers several croissants and eggs in a napkin and folds it into a pouch. One of the waiters is staring at him; Gus grins at him on his way out, grins and winks; and the waiter flushes and looks away.

Yeah, remedial customer service is definitely called for here: in Germany, someone would have gone to get him a basket to carry it all, with plates and knives, and pressed butter and jam on him, not to mention egg cups and spoons; and he remembers one pension in France where  _Madame_  didn’t boil the eggs until you sat down at the table.

He’s not wearing a watch but he’s relatively certain that he’s been gone at least twenty minutes and the wait for the lift adds another three or four. When he lets himself back into the room, he can still hear Johnny talking: through the French doors, he sees Johnny, wrapped in a robe now, sitting on the side of the bed. It’s quickly apparent, however, that he’s talking to his aunt, not Eric, since what little Johnny says is the same as before, Icelandic and English alternating in his gentle murmur.

He puts the napkin down on the table with his coffee and takes Johnny’s coffee in to him. When Johnny stretches out his hand for the coffee, relief and welcome showing plainly in his face, his hand is as shaky as his lips were, before, and Gus feels his mouth set into a thin line. He turns quickly so Johnny won’t see and busies himself in the kitchen, getting a plate for the croissants and fiddling with the mysterious coffee pot – he thinks he’s seen something like it in Greece, perhaps – and trying not to listen to Johnny’s one-sided non-conversation with his aunt.

“I don’t know,” Johnny’s saying apologetically, his voice getting nearer. “He didn’t mention it; maybe there’s no network there.”

“Uh, I can’t remember – I think one of them was twenty-seven and one was fifty-nine.”

“Já, þetta blesst. I’m positive. No, Max was there – he said hello. Já. Já. Ég elska þig. I’ll call you when I hear again, yes. Já. Elska þig. Vertu sæl.”

He flips the phone shut and sinks down into the chair opposite Gus and draws in a shuddering breath. “Thanks,” he says, not looking at Gus. “I’d never have heard it… I was, uh, pretty out of it.”

“I was up,” Gus says. “It was nothing.”

Johnny’s gone again, and Gus knows, he  _knows_ , that it’s Zoë.

He pushes the croissants toward Johnny, then bumps his knuckles against Johnny’s where Johnny’s holding onto the coffee cup. “I’m damned if I can figure out your contraption, Johnny,” he says, trying to inject humour he doesn’t really feel into his voice. “The chocolate croissants are pretty good here. Not as good as the ones you can get in Montreal, of course.”

“Yeah,” Johnny echoes. “Of course.” He tries to smile but it’s clearly an effort.

“Eric okay?” Gus says after a few awkward minutes. He doesn’t want to pry; but he wants to crack Johnny open, suck him out of his shell, wrap him up in his arms and never let him go, keep Johnny from needing a goddamn shell at all.

“He’s great,” Johnny says, glancing up briefly. “I think he’s having the time of his life so far. They were, uh, planning to get a berth on a tramp steamer or something to Hong Kong. Sounds like something out of a movie, doesn’t it? Max got him an OSC, uh, a–”

“Yeah,” Gus says, smiling, wishing he could touch Johnny’s face, “I know what it is.”

“Yeah,” and the smile is real this time, if brief. “I guess you would. So they’re going down to Malaysia, maybe to Australia. It’s better than Burma, uh, Myanmar… Max’s been everywhere and he says it’s all good, but I’d rather… anyway, Max knows it, so… it’s good, and, uh, Eric’s great.”

“You miss him,” Gus says softly.

“Yeah,” Johnny says, looking down again, blinking rapidly. “It’s all… I’m pretty… uh, I’m pretty fucked up right now, sorry. Thanks… thanks for the coffee.”

“Do you want to be alone?” Gus asks, even though he doesn’t want to, even though he doesn’t want to hear the answer.

“… I don’t know,” Johnny says after a while, his voice barely a whisper. “I… just don’t know. I don’t even know who I am any more.” His knuckles are white, and so is his face: Gus almost expects it when the coffee overturns, spilling across the table and splashing onto him.

Johnny, however, stares incredulously, and then buries his face in his arms, his shoulders shaking.

Gus rights the cup (fortunately it still had the lid on) and rescues Johnny’s cell phone; and then he’s kneeling beside Johnny, an arm around his waist, rubbing Johnny’s back with his other hand. Johnny’s fighting the sobs, trying so hard to maintain his control, that Gus’ muscles ache in sympathy.

He wants to say it’s just coffee, but it’s not; and he wants to tell him he doesn’t have to pretend but he can’t: Johnny’s so tense, so fragile, that Gus imagines the wrong words, the wrong touch will shatter him. At the same time, he wants to dig deep and excise that bullet, let the blood flow freely for a while, let that pain  _out_  instead of being inside, poisoning Johnny.

And, yes, if Johnny thinks he doesn’t know who he is any more, that’s an argument for the “Oh, God, I’m gay!” side of the freaking-out column; but Gus still wants to blame Zoë, rational or not, because the “Oh, God, I’m gay!” thing is three days, not three years, old.

And if she  _was_  a control freak, it would probably just  _make_  her afterlife to know she’s managing to control him even from the grave, Johnny living a boxed-in life, afraid to feel, afraid to care, afraid to live because of the pain he’s still carrying… and humiliated, probably beyond bearing, when it catches up with him in front of a mostly-stranger.

So, no, he doesn’t want to shatter Johnny, but he pushes, a little, just enough so Johnny knows that he’s not wishing something ridiculous, like he’d never met Johnny or that Johnny was a thousand miles away. “You can tell me, Johnny,” he says into Johnny’s shoulder. “If you want.”

Johnny chokes again and then turns, so unexpectedly that the back of his hand catches Gus in the jaw, but Gus ignores both that and Johnny’s indrawn breath and pulls Johnny to him. He knows from (bitter) experience that it’s easier to talk when you can’t see the other person, confessional or no.

“Yeah,” Johnny says, his voice breaking, “because to top it all off you’re a priest.”

“Yeah,” Gus says quietly. “What else, Johnny?”

Johnny takes another breath, shaky, then slides to his knees in the circle of Gus’ arms and buries his face in Gus’ neck, words tumbling out like a flood, half of them unintelligible: and Gus lets them flow over him like he’s a rock, in an avalanche, lets them cascade down, away, gone forever; and when Johnny hiccups, when the words slow, falter, and then stop, Gus opens his eyes. The light in the room is like sun on the water.

He puts his hand on the back of Johnny’s neck, shaping Johnny’s skull with his fingers. “No,” he says first, quietly but firmly. “What is now, is; we can’t go back, we can’t change things. You can wonder ‘what if’ but that’s all that it will ever be. There aren’t any second chances. Time is infinity but only in each moment; after each moment, each choice, the infinite starts over. If you’d been married still and we met, there would have been so many different choices piled up that that particular infinity never would have become this one.”

Johnny’s breathing faster, but there’s no real sign that any of that made sense. “You’d have had a wedding ring on,” Gus says after a few moments. “I might not have forgotten to put on my collar.” He’s still not sure: now Johnny’s holding his breath. He pushes, once more. “You would not have committed adultery, Johnny. And… I wouldn’t have given you the chance.”

Johnny holds his breath a few moments longer, then breathes in deep, shuddering a little. Gus restrains himself from pulling Johnny’s face up and kissing him into tomorrow and instead says, “Whether you’ve always been gay, or bisexual, or not, it didn’t affect your feelings for Zoë one iota. You’d have known; and since you didn’t, it wasn’t a factor.”

“That makes no sense,” and Johnny’s breath is warm on his neck. “That’s –”

“You would have known,” Gus says, again firmly. “You would have.  _I_ did.”

Suddenly Johnny’s very still. Finally he says, “So you’re… are you gay? Or… I thought you were, uh, bisexual.”

“I am,” Gus says simply.

There’s another long silence; then Johnny says, almost too quietly for Gus to hear him, “How… how can it be that simple?”

“How can it not be?” and Gus pulls him closer, turning his head to breathe in the scent of Johnny, feel Johnny’s skin and the close-shaven hair behind his ear. “It’s all much simpler than we make it.”

“What is?” and he’s not sure it that’s a laugh or a sniffle.

“Life,” Gus says softly, easily. “God. Love. Hockey.”

This time it’s definite: a snort, not quite a laugh, but not a sniffle either. And, again taking Gus’ breath away, Johnny says unexpectedly, “Confederation?”

“Okay, no,” Gus says, pulling back and risking a kiss, laving away the salt on Johnny’s lips until all he tastes is Johnny’s sweet, sweet mouth. “Confederation is as complicated as religion. It’s all man-made.”

Johnny doesn’t dignify that with an answer: he just leans in again, his lips warm and soft under Gus’. And Gus goes with it, for a few minutes anyway, letting himself relax into Johnny’s warmth, Johnny’s openness, Johnny’s sweetness, hoping that Johnny’s soul is washed clean of the poison; and he thinks that the blood of the Lamb isn’t far off, not when it comes to Johnny.

When he pulls back, reluctantly, Johnny’s still leaning in, eyes closed; and Gus puts his hands on Johnny’s shoulders, giving him a little shake. “If my knees are killing me, I know yours are,” he whispers, brushing a kiss across Johnny’s cheek, stopping at his ear, reveling in the shudder that follows the quick dart of his tongue in and around.

Johnny’s eyes fly open, a delayed reaction, but Gus stops the apology rising to Johnny’s lips with a finger pressed to them. “Come on,” he says, pulling himself up on the edge of the table and bracing his feet to help Johnny up. “I know just the thing.”

Johnny, unresisting and (in all probability) drained beyond his own comprehension, follows Gus docilely into the bathroom. Gus turns on the tub full blast, then distracts Johnny for a blissful few minutes by backing him into a corner and kissing him thoroughly. He tries to rein himself in: the goal is distraction, not actual sex, not right now, but at the same time he’s not only trying to comfort Johnny, he’s trying to give Johnny some of his own strength, trying to give Johnny some of his own peace.

He’s not entirely successful; by the time he comes back to himself, his leg is wedged between Johnny’s and they’re both moaning; Johnny’s robe is open and his cock is rampant on Gus’ thigh, and Gus has to pull back and look, just look for a moment at Johnny, flushed and beautiful from head to cock, and the sight of him makes Gus’ mouth water.

He had a plan… he really did.

He takes another deep breath and pulls Johnny in close, a full body hug. “Okay,” he says, more to himself than to Johnny. “Just the thing.”

“Bath,” Johnny says, his voice lifting a little at the end.

“Yeah,” Gus says, turning Johnny, pulling the robe off him. Johnny turns back, a protest – no, a question – on his face, on his lips. “I’ll be in in a minute.”

He wishes he could take away the dark stains under Johnny’s eyes too, but he’ll settle for unshadowed eyes, unshadowed eyes and a half-smile.

He sticks the “Do not disturb/Ne pas déranger” sign on the door, fetches Johnny’s coffee from the table and pours it into a china mug from the cabinet, then does the same with his own. Balancing both mugs and the plate of croissants and hard boiled eggs, he makes his way into the bathroom and sets everything down on the ledge surrounding the tub. “Breakfast in tub,” he says with a wink when Johnny, his head against the backrest, opens his eyes sleepily. Johnny doesn’t say anything, just watches as Gus strips, his eyes widening when he realises Gus isn’t – wasn’t – wearing underwear.

He’s not prepared for Johnny to move over, quicker than he can react, move over and pull Gus close to the edge of the tub; and Gus’ erection, which was mostly gone, is back within heartbeats as Johnny kisses, licks, takes him in.

He’s feeling a little schizo, but (he supposes) that’s probably nothing compared to the pendulum Johnny’s clearly swinging on.

When he has a chance to breathe, to think, he pulls out as gently as he can and leans in to kiss Johnny. “Come on,” he says, not really knowing what he’s saying. “Breakfast.”

“I–”

“I want nothing more than for you to – to suck me into oblivion again, Johnny,” Gus says, sliding into the tub beside him. “And again, and again, and the other way around too.” He pushes Johnny, then pulls him so Johnny’s leaning back against him this time, and braces his knees so Johnny won’t slide down; and then he begins to massage Johnny’s neck again, smoothing his fingers down the tendons that stand out, he’s noticed, at almost any sign of stress, working his thumbs up the back of Johnny’s neck. “I love to touch you,” he says, leaning down to kiss Johnny’s ear, and Johnny sighs, his eyes closing; and under Gus’ fingers, his shoulders begin to relax. “Hold you… feel you move under me, on me, in me…”

He’s not sure what devil’s prompting him, but Johnny’s eyes fly open, and then he begins to laugh, almost as if he can’t help himself. He laughs too, pulling Johnny up, kissing his neck where, just now, his fingers were, wrapping his arms around Johnny and holding him close and tight. He closes his eyes and breathes in, licking Johnny’s neck then and feeling the water swirl around his cock, still hard, and feeling Johnny’s balls brushing it, now and then, as the currents move and Johnny does too.

He wants Johnny in him again, and again after that; and he imagines being in Johnny, right now, being able to put his hands on Johnny’s hips, thrust up and in, imagining the sounds Johnny would make, the way he’d say Gus’ name, hungry, the way Johnny’s cock would feel in his hand while Johnny’s being fucked, the way Johnny’s cock would swell in his hand right before he comes…

“God, that’s good,” Johnny says, letting his head fall back on Gus’ shoulder, letting Gus push his cock up between Johnny’s legs, behind Johnny’s balls.

“Yeah,” Gus says, trying to breathe, already, again, too close to the edge and not wanting it to stop, not wanting it to end, not wanting Johnny to move a single more time and not able to think what he’ll do if Johnny stops moving, not able to remember that he was trying – God, that road to hell –  _trying_  to make this about Johnny, for Johnny. “God, you turn me on, Johnny…”

“Yeah?” Johnny says, so softly Gus almost doesn’t hear him.

“Yeah,” Gus whispers, turning Johnny’s face, finding his lips by touch alone. “You do. You have to know it.” And he’s oddly thankful to feel heat beneath his lips again, against his chest, under his arms, as the blush races up Johnny’s body: Johnny’s with him again, fully, completely, not thinking about yesterday, or last year, or ten years ago, or even tomorrow, just thinking about them, how he makes Gus feel, how (he hopes) Gus feels about him.

When the heat fades, he leans up, holding Johnny close with one arm and reaching for the coffee, Johnny’s first; and Johnny leans back against him with a contented sound, sipping the coffee, barely lukewarm now; but he doesn’t seem to care, and Gus sure as hell doesn’t. And when he pulls apart a croissant and offers a piece to Johnny, this time Johnny takes it; and, as if he didn’t realize he was hungry, makes short work (with Gus’ help) of the remainder of the plate.

Gus leans in to lick a flake of croissant off Johnny’s lower lip and Johnny licks back, his eyes crinkling into a smile almost before his mouth moves; and the kiss that follows is another slow kiss, long, luxurious, Johnny intent, deliberate, and yet still gentle, his fingers under Gus’ chin not really holding Gus’ face still so much as… resting, or simply touching him. And Gus follows his lead, giving it back to Johnny as slowly as he can, as thoroughly as he can, concentrating only on their mouths, their lips, their tongues touching, meeting, tangling with small wordless sounds and soft breaths.

A shift, a glide, and Johnny’s face to face, straddling him, his long legs cradling Gus’ torso; and Gus has a moment to wish he was that flexible before giving himself up to the intoxication of Johnny’s taste, the feel of Johnny’s lower lip, soft and full, caught between Gus’ teeth, the touch of Johnny’s fingers moving up into Gus’ hair. And when Johnny pulls back, this time, Gus is the one who protests, eyes still closed, leaning up and in.

He feels Johnny’s lips on his cheekbone, then a flicker of tongue; then Johnny’s hugging him close and murmuring something Gus can’t quite understand just in front of Gus’ ear; and Gus lets his head sink back, lets his hands slide down Johnny’s arms, then his back; and he thinks, really, that this is all he ever needs.

Johnny folds his legs and slides down Gus just enough to lick his throat, then kiss it; then he’s sucking – too gently even to leave a mark – and Gus moans, just so Johnny knows he appreciates it, and turns his head to press his lips to Johnny’s temple.

Their respective sighs are almost mutual. Johnny’s hand finds Gus’ and he squeezes it, holding Johnny close with his other arm, listening to his own heartbeat, feeling Johnny’s thudding against his chest.

“Twenty questions,” he whispers, rubbing his thumb on the inside of Johnny’s wrist.

Johnny chuckles, a not-quite-sleepy sound that sends a warm dark thrill through Gus. “Animal, vegetable, mineral…”

“Let’s call it a modification. I ask something, you ask something. Anything. Something you want to know about me. And vice versa.”

Johnny’s tension is all too noticeable: he goes from sleepy and relaxed to bowstring taut almost between breaths; but he doesn’t say no.

“Shall I go first?”

“Sure,” Johnny mumbles; somehow even his wrist, still in Gus’ hand, is taut.

“Fortunately I’ve seen you naked, so that gets rid of the obvious one,” Gus says musingly; and he grins inwardly, feeling Johnny’s puzzlement. “You know… whether you’re a natural blond.”

“Jesus!” Johnny sputters after a few incredulous seconds. “Oh, God, if you think buying condoms in Gimli is bad, you have no clue what would happen if a guy bought hair dye! I mean, for – not for – that wasn’t for someone else, anyway.”

“You have to use bleach,” Gus murmurs, very pleased: Johnny’s tension is, at least momentarily, forgotten. “I think.”

“So was that your, uh, question?” Johnny says, putting his head back down on Gus’ shoulder; his fingers feel like they’re burning a brand down Gus’ collarbone.

“Not at all,” Gus says, trying to keep his breathing steady. “Let’s see… birthday? Do I need to start thinking of a present soon?”

Johnny snorts. “December 15.”

“Smack in the middle of St. Nicholas and Christmas… good timing,” Gus says; and a few seconds later he’s glad he dialed back on the sarcasm, because Johnny’s nodding.

“Yeah, best of both worlds, especially in Canada, because we can’t import skata or hákarl and the rest of it’s either edible or downright good, or so I hear. But Amma and Afi would talk about the hákarl…” He shakes his head. “Auntie Auntie says Langamma told her once it was the worst thing she ever put in her mouth, and she’d eaten  _lichen_.”

He sounds so solemn, and so shocked, that Gus is hard-put not to laugh. “What is – oh, it’s your turn. I’ll have to wait to ask what skata and hákarl are.”

“You get a freebie,” Johnny says, tilting his head to grin up at Gus. “If you really want to know, because it’s gross. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Worse than blubber?” Gus asks, raising an eyebrow: he’d had no idea, starting this, that it would prove so fucking difficult to keep his hands and mouth off Johnny: he wants out of the tub, now, he wants Johnny in bed, now, and he wants to make Johnny  _scream_  when he comes, drive out any and all thoughts that aren’t Gus, that aren’t Gus in bed with him, that aren’t Gus, and sex, and Solomon Gundy around the corner.

“Blubber is  _good_ ,” Johnny’s saying earnestly, sitting up straight. “I’m serious. Hákarl is rotten shark. They bury it in the sand and they let it  _rot_. And skata, that’s the same thing but it’s skate, not shark.”

“Okay, yeah, blubber would be good,” Gus says, a little amazed, but not enough to be completely distracted: how could he be, with Johnny’s eyes sparkling, his face animated, his hands gesturing… Gus can’t tear his eyes, or his thoughts, away, and certainly not for rotten fish, of all things. “Comparatively speaking.”

Johnny doesn’t look as if he thinks Gus is sufficiently convinced, but he nods anyway. “I just… no.”

Gus hopes (is pretty sure, anyway) that this time he doesn’t say “the hell with it” out loud, but the water’s still warm and Johnny’s skin is like silk under his fingers; and soon enough Johnny’s straddling him again, moaning into his mouth, pushing their cocks together rhythmically; and Gus has one hand in the small of Johnny’s back, the other under the curve of Johnny’s ass, helping Johnny rock against him. In the back of his mind his brain is telling him to remember the point, but just then Johnny’s hand slides down his chest, between them, and suddenly there’s delicious pressure all around his cock, against his cock, Johnny’s cock sliding along with his into Johnny’s hand.

All right,  _no_ ,  _not_  here, he wants – needs! – to taste Johnny, feel Johnny stretched against him full length, needs to –

“Oh God,” he says, gasping for breath: Johnny’s hand is tightening, the pace quickening. “Please – Johnny–”

Somewhat to his surprise, Johnny’s hand slows; and Johnny, breathing hard, leans back enough to look at him, a question forming on his lips.

“What you  _do_  to me,” Gus whispers, shaken; and Johnny’s eyes droop suddenly, long lidded, sultry; and he draws in a breath, shaky too. “Bed?” Gus says then, not really a question; and Johnny nods quickly, apparently speechless.

Gus helps Johnny get leverage to push up and out; and he can’t resist biting Johnny’s ass where it curves from his hip, a gentle nip, not enough to bruise, more than enough to make Johnny moan, moan and turn back; and Gus, pulling himself to his knees, leans in to taste Johnny, too fast, too hard, but he can’t stop himself; and when Johnny’s cock slides in further, into his throat, Gus relaxes and swallows. Johnny’s got two fists clenched in Gus’ hair and the noise he makes, a whimper, a throaty sigh, has Gus fumbling for his own cock as he swallows again, as he slides the whole length of him down and buries his nose in Johnny’s pubic hair.

He swallows one more time, then, reluctantly, lets Johnny slide out and takes a deep breath, refilling his lungs; and Johnny’s crouching over him, kissing him urgently, his fingers, those long, beautiful fingers feeling Gus’ throat, just above his Adam’s apple, gasping words into Gus’ mouth: “Oh, God, so hot, so tight, so close…”

“No,” Gus whispers, “not yet; wait for me, Johnny.” And he’s suddenly certain, absolutely certain, that Johnny  _was_  this close, the first time they kissed: the urgency’s the same, and the voice, and the tension all over his body, good tension, happy tension.

Johnny’s eyes are closed and he’s swallowing, trying, Gus realises, to pull himself together. Gus hauls himself out of the tub and wraps a robe around Johnny, just enough to blot some of the water, and then he leans in and licks a nipple, precisely, delicately, pressing just hard enough with his tongue to make Johnny arch against him with another moan.

“Your turn,” he whispers into Johnny’s neck, into Johnny’s ear.

“God, Gus, don’t–”

“I won’t… your turn.” Gus leans down again, flicking the other nipple, feeling Johnny’s hands tighten in his hair. “Ask me,” he whispers, watching the nipple tighten as his breath moves across it. “Your turn.”

“God, I can’t  _think_ ,” Johnny says shakily. “I can’t… ice cream. Ice cream? You like ice cream?”

Tears, unbidden, prick the back of his eyelids: innocent,  _God_ , and so damnably – adorable, so – “Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “I love it.” He pushes, and Johnny moves back a step: they’re in the outer bathroom now, only a few steps to the bed, and it might as well be a hundred miles.

“Vanilla? Chocolate? Uh… butter pecan?”

“My turn,” Gus growls, burying his face in Johnny’s neck, sucking, licking, biting enough to make Johnny’s voice, when he answers, break.

“Don’t I – oh,  _God_ … freebie?”

“Anything,” Gus growls again, pushing, walking Johnny backwards, “ _every_ thing. Chocolate and vanilla and  _especially_  butter pecan. Whipped cream, nuts, a cherry.”

“I want to taste ice cream on you,” Johnny says against Gus’ mouth. “I want… I want…”

“Everything,” Gus says again, halting their progress (such as it is) so he can lose himself in Johnny’s mouth again, in Johnny’s arms, in the hot press of Johnny’s body against his, the hard press of cock against his stomach, the rough soft brush of hair under his palms as he cradles Johnny’s head in his hands.

“Your turn,” Johnny whispers against his mouth; and Gus has to physically stop himself, stop for a moment and  _think_ , because the words aren’t going together in any way that makes sense to him right now.

Of course, that’s assuming that he’s stopped making sense  _now_  as opposed to, say, five minutes ago.

“Music,” he breathes, biting Johnny’s chin, scraping the stubble with his teeth. “What’d you listen to, growing up?”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Music,” Johnny echoes, turning his head to find Gus’ mouth with his own, because if he feels Gus’ teeth one single more time he’s going to come and the hell with waiting.

Except that Gus’ certainty, that he  _can_  wait, that he  _will_  wait… Gus’ certainty is almost impossible to argue with, or even doubt.

“Music,” Gus says again, into his mouth; and they’re moving again, too, backwards until he feels the bed behind him. He sinks down first, fast, licking a broad wet strip down Gus’ belly, under Gus’ cock, nuzzling into Gus’ balls with his nose and his mouth and breathing in deep. Gus groans, a deep beautiful sound, and Johnny groans too because he smells so good, he tastes so good, under, behind, around, the fuzz on Gus’ balls tickling his nose and his face.

“You’re killing me,” Gus breathes. “God, Johnny…”

Johnny, his mouth stretched around one of Gus’ balls, can’t really answer but Gus probably doesn’t expect him to, so he hums instead, feeling the sound vibrate through his mouth, through Gus the way Gus’ moan, Gus’ words are vibrating through him.

This… this is what he wanted, all he wanted; and it suddenly seems as simple as Gus said it was, earlier.

Gus’ hands are in his hair again, pulling tight, hauling Johnny up and back by main force. Seconds after he lets go, Gus is on him, on the bed, insistent: he pins Johnny’s arms above his head with one hand and stares at him for a long moment before leaning in to brush Johnny’s lips with his own while his other hand finds Johnny’s nipple.

“My turn,” he says again, and his voice is so dark, so throaty, that Johnny nearly comes on the strength of it. “Music…”

“God,” Johnny says, breathless, laughing. “Who  _cares_  what I–”

“I care,” Gus says, fixing him with eyes so dark and intent that Johnny’s stomach flips. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way,” and he grinds his hips into Johnny’s crotch, against Johnny’s cock, when he says ‘hard,’ and then reaches down to lick Johnny’s nipples again, first the left, then the right.

“Oh, God, anything,” Johnny says, squirming and not caring how desperate he sounds: it’s not like Gus doesn’t already  _know_ everything there is to know, everything  _important_  anyway. “The, uh… the Diodes. DOA.”

“Of course,” Gus breathes, a wicked glint in his eye; and he begins to move against Johnny,  _too_ slow, too  _good_. “And? The Clash?”

“Yeah,” Johnny gasps, trying to pull out of Gus’ grip. “C’mon, oh God, Gus –”

“Sex Pistols? Pink Floyd?”

“No – yes! Suddenly Saucer, uh…”

“Triumph?”

Johnny’s eyes fly open to see Gus grinning at him; and then Gus looses his wrists. “Oh yeah,” Johnny says, trying to sound as firm as Gus but only managing half-cocked – full-cocked, right between the legs, God – “had  _all_  their albums –” With his hands free he can grab Gus, pull him down, and he does, licking Gus’ mouth and then going for it like an odd man rush late in the third.

When Gus is breathing as hard as Johnny, Johnny lets go, lets go and gets his leg under him, pushing Gus over so he’s on top now, straddling Gus. “My turn,” he says, holding Gus by the wrists – one hand for each, because Gus has at least twenty pounds on him. But Gus is struggling just enough that his cock is poking Johnny in the belly; as soon as Johnny catches on, he gets up on his knees and says again, “My turn.”

Gus grins, chest still heaving, and says, almost meekly, “Okay.”

But Johnny’s not stupid and doesn’t relax his grip for even a second. Gus grins broader and tries to lift his head enough to reach Johnny’s. “Too smart for me,” he says, straining; but Johnny’s got leverage and he holds Gus down. “Okay, your turn.”

Johnny wishes he had a free hand: Gus deserves to be tickled right now. But he settles for teasing, sinking back down slowly, letting their cocks touch, meet, move just enough that Gus’ eyes start to close, and then he stops. “Cats or dogs?” he says, trying to keep his voice steady, trying to sound as nonchalant as Gus did; and he chances a quick dip, a taste of Gus’ mouth.

“Johnny–”

“Cats or dogs?” Johnny says again, unable to keep the smile off his face any longer. “Gerbils? Horses? Sheep?”

“I don’t know what rumours you’ve heard about Newfoundland but the sheep are  _not_  scared,” Gus says; and while Johnny’s exploding with laughter Gus gets loose, but instead of flipping them over again, he pulls Johnny down, stretches Johnny out, full-length, on top of him, and rubs one hand over Johnny’s ass, kissing him (between Johnny’s gasps for breath) all the while. “In fact,” Gus adds when Johnny’s finally stopped, “between you and me, those sheep are  _spoiled_.” He thrusts up against Johnny as he says it, his cock hard and wet against Johnny’s stomach, and Johnny loses it completely, rolling off Gus onto his back and howling.

Gus leans up on an elbow, grinning, chuckling now and then; and he sets Johnny off all over again when he says solemnly, “Spoiled  _rotten_. But not like shark.”

“Oh God, my stomach hurts,” Johnny says, gasping. “You are  _sick_ , I am sick, we’re  _sick_!”

“Welcome to hell,” Gus says, and he’s suddenly a lot closer than he was just seconds ago, his breath warm on Johnny’s face. “Pretty cozy, isn’t it?”

Johnny doesn’t really know what he’s saying, and doesn’t really care: “I love it. I–”

Fortunately for him, and for any hope he has of getting out of this, in a few weeks, with maybe a shred of dignity, Gus cuts him off with a tongue in his mouth and a hand on his cock. By the time Gus is talking again, his lips warm and soft against Johnny’s throat, it’s all Johnny can do to actually listen: “I don’t have a sheep,” he’s saying. “Or a dog, not that I mind dogs. I have a cat, sometimes: she’s the town cat; and I had a pig for a while. Does that count?”

“Count…” Johnny says, straining into Gus’ hand. “Uh… yeah… oh, God, don’t – don’t–”

“I won’t,” Gus says in the hollow at the base of his throat. “Never,” and his tongue is warm and wet on Johnny’s nipple again, God, nothing’s ever felt like that. He tries to pull Gus up, hooking a leg over his waist, but Gus laughs against his skin and licks the flat of Johnny’s stomach.

“My turn again,” Gus says into Johnny’s navel; and then Johnny feels tongue, tongue and lips. He can’t think what Gus means for a second, and then can’t believe it, and he laughs out loud, mostly because he can’t believe Gus is serious.

“Yeah,” Gus says, lifting his head to look at Johnny, his smile glorious and untamed, and Johnny can’t breathe for a second because he’s so  _beautiful,_  so he just blinks instead. “Or on second thought…”

“Second thoughts, third thoughts,” Johnny says, arching his body, trying to get closer, somehow– “Please…”

Gus rubs his palms up Johnny’s thighs and Johnny shudders; and Gus leans in and Johnny watches as his tongue comes out. He wants to keep watching, he wants to see – but when Gus’ tongue touches the end of his cock he gasps and his head falls back: maybe next time, because Gus’ mouth is so warm, so sweet, that he just wants to  _feel_ , just wants–

And Gus is doing it again, taking Johnny in, in and  _down_ ; and Johnny shoves his fist in his mouth so he doesn’t scream, let the whole floor, the whole  _hotel_  know how good it feels to be in Gus Knickel’s throat, how soft warm tight  _wet_ –

And then it’s gone, gone too fast, a chill down his cock and up his spine.

And then Gus is over him, on him, holding his hands, still in fists, kissing where Johnny bit himself, and telling Johnny in a fierce, low whisper that he  _wants_  Johnny, he wants  _all_  of him, he wants to  _taste_  him, taste him and feel him and  _hear_  him, and Johnny barely has time to wonder how Gus saw him, how he  _noticed_ , before Gus’ mouth is on his. And this time it’s not gentle, not at all, it’s Gus licking his way in and  _taking_  his mouth, it’s Gus’ hand on the back of his neck, strong and warm, _holding_  him, it’s Gus’ thigh between his legs giving him something to rub against, something else to feel.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He knows he’s pushed Johnny to the edge and he can’t stop himself anyway: he’s this close to dragging Johnny back to Solomon Gundy, back to his island, where he’s not bound by the constraints of time and civilization and everything else that comes, or wants to come, between Johnny and him, where Johnny won’t have to  _think_ , won’t have to worry, won’t have to –

He kisses Johnny’s hand again, his tongue finding the dents Johnny’s teeth made there, licking and smoothing them; and he rubs his finger over them too. Johnny’s breathing fast, confusion writ large on his face; Gus holds his gaze and licks his finger, then finds one of Johnny’s nipples without looking, circling it gently, lightly. Johnny moans again, hooking an ankle around Gus’ calf, his cock pulsing against Gus’ thigh.

Gus wets his finger again and then slides down enough to make room for his hand, too, between Johnny’s legs; and as he licks Johnny’s nipple, pressing it down and then sucking it in, he reaches behind Johnny’s balls, finding the soft skin there.

Johnny’s got Gus by the hair with one hand, the other one holding onto Gus’ shoulder like a drowning man clinging to wreckage. Gus slides his hand further down, finding the soft pucker of skin, rubbing gently and using his teeth, just as gently, on Johnny’s nipple at the same time. Johnny’s moan goes higher all at once as Gus’ fingertip slips in, in and out, higher and louder, and  _that’s_  what Gus wanted, wants. He reaches up with his thumb, finding the base of Johnny’s cock and rubbing up and around while he blows across Johnny’s nipple.

Johnny seems to come up off the bed; Gus pushes his hand down, his finger in just a little more and fastens his lips to the base of Johnny’s throat, sucking hard enough to sting, hard enough to leave a mark. And this time Johnny does scream, or near enough to make no difference. Gus misses the first mouthful but latches onto Johnny’s cock in time for the rest, and he doesn’t know what he wants more: the sound of Johnny, almost a moan, part of a whimper, or the taste of Johnny’s cock, spilling into his mouth, warm and alive and bursting with Johnny.

Johnny’s still shuddering, still coming, when his calf jerks again under Gus, in just the right spot, and Gus sucks him in hard one last time and then lets himself go all over Johnny’s leg and the sheets, raising his head to gasp Johnny’s name against Johnny’s stomach.

There’s moisture on his face; it takes him a minute, breathing hard and collecting his scattered-to-the-wind thoughts, to realize he’s laying in Johnny’s come. That thought makes his breath catch again and he turns to lick Johnny’s stomach, still heaving beneath him as Johnny tries to catch his own breath. Johnny’s fingers are on his face, cupping his jaw, stroking gently, and Gus has to consciously slow his breathing, his pounding heart, because he feels inexplicable tears threatening.

It’s the work of a few seconds to pull the covers down, to climb back into the bed with Johnny, pull the covers back up and wrap himself around Johnny; and it’s not the wisest thing he’s ever done, but he whispers things he probably shouldn’t in Johnny’s ear, just in front of his lips; and Johnny answers back, sleepy, smiling, and oh so sweet.

It’s a very few minutes later when Johnny’s deep, even breathing shows he’s gone; and Gus hopes – he’d pray, if he could _think_  – he’ll be let to sleep undisturbed by ghosts this time; and he kisses the back of Johnny’s neck and lets the tears he’d held back, earlier, slide out of the corner of his eye and into the pillowcase.

He tucks his face between the back of Johnny’s head and the pillow and lets the darkness pull him down, heaving a deep sigh that’s the last thing he remembers for a while.

When he wakes again, he’d swear Johnny hasn’t moved, and that’s just what he wanted.

Wants.

God, he wants.

He breathes in deep and presses his lips to the back of Johnny’s neck; Johnny murmurs something, something Gus can’t make out; but his voice is warm… and happy.

“Soon,” Gus whispers, not really sure if it’s Johnny or himself he’s talking to; and then he carefully, quietly disentangles himself from Johnny’s arms and legs. Once out of bed, Johnny murmurs something else and rolls onto his stomach.

Gus wonders if, hopes that, Johnny will sleep until he gets back from the lawyers; and he gets ready as quietly as he can, then pulls the French doors shut and writes Johnny a quick note.

Unfortunately he has to go back into the bedroom for the papers from the lawyers: and he finds them on the table by the window, where Johnny must have put them for safekeeping. Johnny’s still sleeping soundly; Gus watches him for a long minute and then shakes himself.

He props the note up by Johnny’s coffee contraption: “Gone to lawyers. Back around three (I hope). See you for dinner.”

Yeah, Noelle wants an informal dinner; but if it’s that informal, he’s damned if he’ll leave Johnny behind, although the prospect of Johnny at the mercy of, say, Nelson’s tongue – or even Noelle’s – wipes the smile from his face, enough so that the doorman rushes to open the door, apologizing all the while; and it takes Gus almost too long to laugh and brush it off.

No dinner, and that’s an end to it, he decides; and he stops in the store at the corner to make two phone calls.

He could make them from the room, but he’d wake Johnny; and he could make them from the lawyers’ offices but it’s none of their concern.

Zeda’s in, and answers on the second ring; she usually does. She grills him about the confederation and the concessions; fortunately he’d read enough, last night, to satisfy her most pressing questions but she’s not entirely happy with his answers.

Being her star pupil for too many years to count is starting to have its drawbacks, and he says as much.

She scolds him, but she’s off the subject now and ready to listen to the real reason he called, which was nothing to do with confederation and everything to do with Johnny.

“And shouldn’t you be telling this to your bishop?” is the first thing she says.

“I will,” Gus says. “But you came first.”

“I hope you’re not expecting confetti and fireworks,” and Gus rejoices, as he always does, in her very acidity. “There’s many on the island will be disappointed in you, letting the line die out.”

The other, better thing he loves about Zeda is not just her ability to put him in his place but her ability to understand the things he doesn’t say, doesn’t need to say to her.

“They’ve had plenty of years to practice,” he says glibly, knowing what she expects from him. “It’s probably better this way.” He knows, and she knows too, that anything, really, would go over better than Noelle had, probably even the apocryphal sheep.

“You’d think that,” she says, punctuating her sentence with a snort. “You were everything your grandfather wanted, you know.”

“And my father wasn’t,” Gus says. “You know.”

“You’ll bring him for dinner as soon as you get here. No excuses, mind,” Zeda says, finally capitulating.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Gus says meekly.

“Perhaps you should call Bunsy too,” she says, and again he feels a surge of homesickness, so sharp he can taste it: she knew he’d call her first; and she knows he’ll call Bunsy next.

“I’m on solid ground there,” he says cheerfully. “At least there’s no way Johnny can be mistaken for a witch.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Zeda says automatically. “Call me before you leave Montréal so we can air the place out.”

“Of course,” Gus says, just as meekly, and she hangs up.

Bunsy, who’s grown increasingly hard of hearing, is more of a challenge. At first he takes it into his head that Gus is bringing Noelle back and after a five minute harangue in which he holds Noelle, and confederation, responsible for all the evils that have befallen Solomon Gundy in the past two hundred years, Gus’ laughter finally penetrates his righteous anger.

“Not Noelle,” Gus says loudly. “ _Johnny_.”

There’s a long silence; then Bunsy says, “Come from over the sea, did he?”

Gus tries not to be surprised but there’s not much point in it. “In a manner of speaking.”

“You’d best let Zeda know. That cat of yours is pregnant. I told you no good would come of feeding her in the graveyard.”

“Cats hunt, Bunsy, it’s not as if I turn mice loose –”

“You probably turn mice loose a-purpose for her to run down,” Bunsy says loudly.

“You’re right, as usual,” Gus says. “I’ll call you again when I’m on my way back.”

“Mind he brings–”

“Absolutely,” Gus says, and hangs up the phone before the laughter gets loose: a mortally offended Bunsy, while amusing at times, is not something that Gus needs to cope with as soon as he gets back.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The bed’s not only empty but cold when Johnny wakes. He stares at the ceiling for a minute, his hand resting in the hollow where Gus had been.

It’s in the back of his head that Gus was meeting with someone, but he doesn’t know if Gus told him or he just figured it out somehow.

Anyway.

He’s got stuff to do too and slacking in bed all day won’t get it done.

And Johnny knows it’s sad but he checks for a note first: Gus left him one – hell, handed it to him – when he went to get breakfast, after all. And he finds one, by the coffee pot; and he doesn’t realize he’s smiling until he’s folded it into quarters.

It goes in his bag, in his zip binder where he keeps his passport and address book, and a calling card, and the map of Canada that (sort of) made Gus laugh until he couldn’t breathe; and, yeah, the note that Gus shoved under his nose this morning, while Johnny was on the phone with Eric.

It’s stupid, and he never said it wasn’t. He’d kept the four letters Zoë’d sent him – they’d never really been apart, not very much – with the vague idea that their grandchildren would want to see them some day.

He’d never found his letters to her, he realises suddenly, but he didn’t go through her stuff; Auntie Auntie and her friend (and, of course, Johnny’s cousin twice removed) Nora had. Auntie Auntie wouldn’t have thrown them away but she might have put them away.

He should ask her, next time he thinks of it.

Not that grandchildren are part of the picture, but great nephews or great nieces, yeah, someday he could have those climbing all over him and asking questions, wanting to know; and he can show them the letters from Zoë and the… the two innocuous notes from a week he spent in Ottawa once with a priest.

Johnny laughs out loud, laughs at himself, but he doesn’t hold it against himself either; and he zips the binder up again and goes in to shower and shave.

He doesn’t notice it until he’s shaving: why should he? But Gus left a mark, red, with purple pinpricks, on his collarbone, a mark the size of a loonie.

And he’s not getting hard over that, because he’s  _not_ a teenager.

Not that he ever had one as a teenager, but Sigrid had, and it made them laugh: once, when their father actually noticed something outside his boat, his engine, Sigrid told him, with a straight face, that it was the curling iron.

Her hair was all of three inches long just then but Dad had nodded and gone back to the parts catalog; and it was all they could do not to laugh, but they’d held off until they got to the attic and they’d laughed then until they couldn’t breathe, until Sigrid had tears rolling down her face, until Johnny’s stomach ached.

Sort of the way it aches now, after Gus and the sheep, after laughing so hard he couldn’t stop; and he’s smiling again, just thinking about it, and thinking how those’re sheep to be jealous  _of_.

He picks out a black t-shirt, a little small, so the neck’s snug; and he pulls out his only pair of clean jeans, also a little tight, and black, once, now old and worn to a dark soft grey. Laundry is definitely on his to-do list today, laundry and coffee.

Gus’ clothes are still on the floor in the bathroom so Johnny picks them up too: jeans are jeans, after all, and he got coffee on Gus’ shirt.

And he’s not going to get hard, either, over the memory of Gus stripping down and no underwear beneath.

God.

If he’s here much longer he’ll end up jerking off; and after just two days with Gus, that’s – it’s just not enough, not now.

So Johnny skips coffee, shoving the laundry into a rucksack he uses for it. He gets change from the front desk, but the clerk doesn’t seem to understand Johnny’s question. It doesn’t matter: he’d planned to stop by, say hi to Hafdís anyway, see if she knows a place.

He barely has time to get “Sæl!” out of his mouth before she’s bringing him a cup for coffee, sitting him down at the same table as yesterday; and she puts a plate of cookies out for him before going to wait on the woman and her daughter who came in right after Johnny.

Hafdís sits down too, after they leave (they bought two sweaters and a bracelet that doesn’t look like it but still makes him think of the one Max bought for Zoë) and they have a companionable cup of coffee, talking about nothing in particular. When she nods at his rucksack, he remembers his question: the coffee was so good, and the cookies (as good as Amma’s), that he forgot why he’d originally stopped in. He tells her about the coffee pot and the coffee, and she’s thrilled about that too; and of course she knows a place for laundry, further into “the Market,” she says, that’s clean and reasonable.

Johnny forgets his Icelandic  _and_  his English, trying to thank her when he leaves, and he feels his face getting hot; but she just laughs and pats his arm, and tells him to come by again before he leaves Ottawa, and to bring a picture of his nephew next time (the Grade 8 picture in Johnny’s wallet is “too old”).

On the way to the laundromat Johnny passes an army-navy surplus store. He’d planned to look for one in Montreal but he’s never looked a gift horse in the mouth. He comes out almost an hour later, happier than he was before and in possession of a shelter-half, a very small camping stove, a mess kit, a kettle, and a couple of old wool blankets. Next door is a bookshop, where he finds a map of eastern Canada that’s better than the one he has at the hotel; and, down the next street, he finds the laundromat.

He splurges on two loads, a light and a medium: his two pairs of jeans plus Gus’ take up most of the room in one of the (really small) washers. And he’s almost alone, so he doesn’t feel guilty about spreading the map out on one of the folding tables and studying it for a while. He’s practicing the French names under his breath, trying to say them the way Gus did, when the washers stop.

He concentrates on Newfoundland while the dryers are going: he finds Solomon Gundy and identifies the ferry routes to it. He has to look around the map to find the scale, and he tries to figure out how big the island really is, measuring with his fingertip; when the dryer buzzer goes off, he realises he’s tracing the water around the island with his finger and he’s glad he’s alone now: he can feel his ears heating up.

On the way back to the hotel he stops in to tell Hafdís about the little stove, and to thank her for the laundromat. She reminds him of Eric, a little, entering into the spirit of the trip, and she’s telling him a vendor to look for, the next day at the farmer’s market, when someone else comes into the store. He ducks out with a grin and a wave and tells her he’ll see her tomorrow; she calls after him to remember the picture of Eric.

Johnny doesn’t have his watch on – he left without it; but he’s pretty sure it’s way past three: the sun is sitting a lot lower in the sky. On the other hand, Gus doesn’t seem the type to worry, if he even made it back by three (Johnny’s found, in his own very limited experience, that meetings with lawyers always go long).


	2. mardi: après-midi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he looks up again, Johnny’s stretched out on the couch, one bare foot hanging off the end closest to Gus, one arm crooked behind his head, the t-shirt pulled up just enough for Gus to see a crescent of skin between jeans and shirt.

##  vi. mardi: après-midi

Gus hadn’t realized how much he was counting on seeing Johnny until he returns to an empty room.

Oh, it’s not empty, and he’s a fool to think Johnny’s the type – morning person that he is – to laze around all day, any more than Gus is (although the prospect of lazing around on, say, a cold (and not too distant) winter’s day with Johnny, nothing to do and nowhere to go, is a very appealing one). Johnny’s cell phone is gone, but there’s no note; on the other hand, the note he left is gone.

Gus checks his watch, more from habit than anything else: it was almost four when he looked at it five minutes ago.

He berates himself for not getting Johnny’s cell number before realizing that calling Johnny just to see where he is would be… somewhat needy, not to say possibly annoying; but just the same he spends a restless few moments wondering if the front desk would have a record of incoming calls.

He could make coffee; he’s starving. And Johnny might be too.

Or they could  _eat_ … that might be more practical.

Gus compromises: he starts a pot of coffee and calls room service. The idea of fish is more than he can stomach – while the meeting went well, Solomon Gundy seems further off than ever; so he settles on burgers, fries, and salads from the hotel café. If they’re hungry later they can go out for something or order more in.

After putting the receiver down, he taps his fingers on the counter for a few minutes and then realises that he’s… well, wool-gathering would be nice, but hardly accurate; moping, however, is probably too harsh.

He’s only known Johnny, what, four days?

His eyes fall on the package (for convenience, he’s been carrying around the entire thing in the express box): a whole lot of nothing, he feels, was  _actually_  accomplished (although the lawyers seemed happy), and he left Noelle tightlipped (seething!) because he reneged on dinner; but he might as well annotate the notes, for Zeda’s sake if nothing else, while it’s still fresh in his mind. There’s a part of him that rejoices in that much more absurdity: notes on the  _notes_ , for God’s sake.

Truth to tell, he’s been putting this off, partly because he can and partly because he hasn’t wanted to think too hard about what he’s doing; but what he told Johnny was true, and whether or not Dexter would have liked it, it’s done now, or at least put into motion. Bunsy’ll vote against it, and probably most of those directly involved; Gus might even vote against it himself, if it comes down to it. But the islanders will pass it: they can’t not, and the main thing is, and has been, to give them some protection, give the island some autonomy, keep them from being at the whim of the liars in Ottawa even if they are the lunatic fringe of the periphery.

He settles down with a cup of coffee at the (for lack of a better word) dining room table, by the window and across the room from the “kitchen.” Since he has been neglecting the notes he’s more involved than he thought he’d be: it takes the door clicking closed for him to look up, to realize the sun’s disappearing, to realize that dinner is  _still_  not here… and Johnny  _is_.

Johnny’s turning away from the fridge and quietly putting an old backpack and some bags on the kitchen table, as if he’s trying not to disturb Gus; and Gus’ mouth is suddenly dry. Johnny’s in a black t-shirt, tight enough that Gus can see his body outlined beneath it; and at the top, at the collar, he can see the shadow of the mark he left… last night? This morning?

And (inevitably) he’s getting hard, and now his mouth is watering, and he’s halfway across the room before Johnny looks up, a pleased smile, a guilty look –

If it had been more than four days, or if Johnny was anyone else, Gus would have him bent over the nearest surface right now.

But (thank God again) it is Johnny, and it has only been four days, and if he doesn’t take it easy Johnny’s going to think–

Or, he thinks, not so much shocked as delighted,  _he’s_  going to think all  _Johnny_  wants is sex, because Johnny’s met him halfway across the room and already has Gus’ shirt pulled up, his hands warm on Gus’ skin, and – oh  _God_  yes – Johnny’s hard  _too_.

“Don’t apologise for disturbing me,” he says against Johnny’s neck, his tongue searching out the bruise. “Don’t even think of it.”

“I wasn’t,” Johnny says, breathless and almost laughing. “Just, uh, lost track of time and – God, oh God!”

Gus has a hand on Johnny’s back; the other hand is the one prompting Johnny’s sudden religious fervor, stroking Johnny’s cock through the soft, worn denim. The jeans are tighter than the other ones Johnny’s been wearing, tight enough that Gus can see the zipper bulging, tight enough that he can’t get his hand into the waistband; and he turns Johnny, sudden and quick, to squeeze Johnny’s ass in both hands, rub his palms across the worn seat, rub his thumbs up the seam and back down, tracing the crack of Johnny’s ass. Johnny’s head thuds back against Gus’ collarbone, hard enough to hurt, and Gus welcomes the pain, backing him down: how does Johnny  _do_  this to him?

It’s a stupid question, really; the important thing is Johnny in his arms, twisting enough to get his mouth on Gus’ neck, and Gus pulls Johnny back against him by the hips, finding the sharp point of Johnny’s hip bone and smoothing his thumb over it, over the faded denim, over and over, as if it’s Johnny’s cock (which he can  _feel_ , a scant inch away, hot and hard); and Johnny writhes in his grip, pushing his hips back against Gus, against his cock, and then forward, seeking Gus’ hand.

It’s the work of a moment to slip his hand into Johnny’s pocket, to swallow Johnny’s gasp in his own mouth, to slide his hand around Johnny’s cock, or what he can reach of it. Johnny’s moaning – his name, maybe, some Icelandic – and Gus only needs his other hand to hold Johnny in place, to grind his cock against Johnny’s ass, setting a rhythm: push, squeeze, grind.

His fingers are damp: Johnny’s cock is leaking, through his briefs, through the thin fabric of the pocket; and Gus can almost smell it, and he dips his head to Johnny’s neck, breathing in deep, licking where Johnny’s pulse is pounding, sucking too, but not hard enough (this time) to leave a mark. He wishes he had just one more hand so he could pull Johnny’s shirt up, bare Johnny’s nipples to the air, to his hand, to his mouth.

It’s almost as if Johnny hears him: he slides his free hand (the one not wrapped around Gus’ arm, bracing them both) behind them, holding Gus’ ass, picking up the rhythm, pulling and squeezing Gus’ ass; and Gus takes advantage of the freedom to go from Johnny’s hip straight up his chest, under that damned t-shirt, Johnny’s nipple taut and hard under his fingertips. He twists, pulls, and Johnny’s grabbing him, gasping his name and coming, arching under Gus’ hands, his cock thrusting hard into Gus’ grip, his whole body shuddering.

And it’s not just the unexpectedness, but the unqualified  _trust_ , as near absolute as Gus has ever seen, that  _allows_  Johnny to come (so hard Gus’ hand is  _wet_ ) and sag against Gus, out of breath and trusting Gus to hold him, hold him up, bring him down.

“God,” Gus says in Johnny’s ear, hungry,  _so_  hungry, “you’re so… black suits you. How old  _are_  you, Johnny? I swear you look eighteen…”

Johnny’s eyes are still closed, his head still resting in the curve of Gus’ neck and shoulder; but he smiles, and it really does take Gus’ breath away. “Are we still doing twenty questions?”

“No. Yes,” Gus says, sounding more confused than he actually feels, and unable to wait for an answer. Johnny’s mouth is warm and soft and as gentle as the first time they kissed, but this time Johnny’s murmuring formless words against his lips. Gradually the words take form: “Thirty-six,” Johnny’s whispering. “What about you? My turn?”

“Anything,” Gus breathes, slowing his rocking against Johnny’s ass, reveling in the sensation. “Thirty-eight. Thirty-nine in August. I knew – I knew you had to be – God, Johnny, don’t stop – had to be…”

“Eric,” Johnny whispers, and there’s a smile in his voice. “Twins. Yeah.”

“Yeah,” and the plateau Gus was on is falling away, crumbling underneath his –

Johnny leans, bracing himself sideways on the armchair, his hand going to his waist. Gus realises through his fog that his hand is still in Johnny’s pocket, but when he tries to draw it out, Johnny grabs his wrist and squeezes his hand through the denim. It makes Gus laugh, or it would if he had any breath, but he doesn’t, not right now.

And then Johnny’s unfastening his jeans, unzipping them too, and pulling them down so Gus’ hand, sticky and wet, is on Johnny’s bare hip; and Johnny’s reaching behind, trying to unfasten Gus’ pants too.

He doesn’t,  _can’t,_  know what he’s  _doing_ , what he’s doing to Gus, the scant curve of his (naked!) ass shifting against Gus’ thighs, rubbing, while his fingers fumble, pushing the button the wrong way, and Gus is about to lose it completely, do something they’ll both regret in a very few minutes.

He pulls back, still trying to find breath to speak, and Johnny looks over at him, up at him, then down at Gus’ crotch.

“I–” Gus says, foolishly, and Johnny bites his lip; and Gus wants to bite it too, has to bite it, has to lick Johnny’s mouth where his teeth were, his lips, his tongue surging inside Johnny’s mouth, beyond his control, licking Johnny’s fucking  _teeth_ , sucking Johnny’s tongue, once, twice, then pulling back enough to lick Johnny’s lip again, sucking it back into his mouth, licking, nibbling.

“Please,” Johnny says into Gus’ mouth, licking back, setting his teeth into Gus’ lower lip just the same way Gus did. “I – I think… I, uh, want…”

And it’s all Gus can do  _not_  to do it, not to take Johnny up on it, not to ditch the trousers, slide Johnny’s legs apart, push – push, oh God – “No,” he says, too harshly, and Johnny’s hand falls away.

“God, no, not – not  _no_ ,” and Gus feels his head shaking. “Not… not like this, I mean, God, Johnny, I–”

“It… feels good,” Johnny says quietly, an ache in his voice Gus can  _feel_. “I just... I…”

“Okay,” Gus says, his traitorous hands going to his own waistband, his fingers unfastening, unzipping too quickly, as if his body’s afraid he’ll change his mind. “But you’ve got to – to listen, to–”

He almost says ‘trust’ and then realises that’s pointless, it was pointless five minutes ago and it’s even more so now, Johnny offering himself to Gus on a silver platter. “…listen,” he finishes lamely; but Johnny just nods, his eyes not leaving Gus’, his hands moving toward Gus as if he’s no more in control of them than Gus is of his own.

And Gus lets him, for a few moments, lets him help push, pull; but then it’s too much and he pulls Johnny in close, kissing, then turning him, angling him so the back of the armchair is within easy reach. And Johnny’s already bending over, trying to spread his legs, trammeled by the jeans at his knees.

Gus shudders and moves up against Johnny, covering him, wrapping his arms around Johnny’s chest. “God,” he says into Johnny’s shoulder, grasping for words, for control, “you… you’d let me… tie you to that bed in there,  _blindfolded_ , and you’d let me fuck you into next Tuesday, wouldn’t you,” and there is no  _way_  that that’s a question.

But Johnny leans back against him, wrapping his hands around Gus’ arms, turning his head just enough so Gus can see his face, his eyes opening slowly. “Yeah,” he says, as if it’s that simple, and Gus is left speechless, anchored to reality only by the feel of Johnny under him, solid and warm. “Wouldn’t you?”

And it’s not even the way he asks it, not at all, it’s… it’s just the way he  _says_  it, as a matter of course, so… trusting, so…full of belief, or faith, or whatever you want to call it: whatever it is, suddenly Gus feels it too, suddenly Gus is saying words he never dreamt of saying, ever, to  _anyone_ , and it’s just as simple, just as matter-of-fact as Johnny sounds: “Of course;” and it shakes him, it shakes him to the bone to know that he actually means it, that he’s already given Johnny that… trust? Power? And is it because Johnny’s given it to him?

And does any of it  _matter_  right now, with Johnny all but naked in his arms?

Stupid question, because of  _course_  it doesn’t; and he pulls Johnny close to him, maneuvering them both around the armchair, pushing Johnny to his knees on the seat.

Johnny’s as in tune with Gus as before, spreading his knees wide, bracing his hands on the back of the chair, dropping his head when Gus pushes his t-shirt out of the way so he can lick his way up Johnny’s spine; Johnny leans his head on one arm, moaning quietly.

“That’s it,” Gus says against the back of Johnny’s neck, smoothing the t-shirt back down, kissing Johnny just behind his ear; and when Johnny tilts his head, baring his neck to Gus, Gus uses teeth, just for a second, just to feel Johnny shudder, just to see Johnny’s knuckles go white. The smell of Johnny, and Johnny’s semen from earlier, is making Gus dizzy, but it’s a good feeling, the universe spinning around him like a carnival ride, and he’s not sure if it’s his heart he feels pounding against Johnny’s back or if it’s Johnny’s heart pounding against his chest, but whichever way it’s working it’s thrumming between the two of them, connecting them everywhere.

He licks a finger and traces the soft down at the base of Johnny’s spine; and Johnny moans again, trying to spread his knees wider; he knew this, already, about Johnny, that Johnny jumps in with both feet, but it’s still hard for Gus to believe, even with Johnny’s ass pushing back against Gus’ finger.

“Great instincts,” he whispers against Johnny’s spine, lower down, licking the knobs of his vertebrae, each one, licking and sucking his way down, down to the soft hair, and then lower; and when his tongue hits Johnny’s crack Johnny gasps, an indrawn breath that feels almost like a sob through Gus’ tongue and mouth. He licks his thumb, wetting it, sliding it down until Johnny gasps again, until the soft flesh gives; and he pushes his thumb against Johnny’s hole, massaging it firmly, licking his way down until his tongue finds his thumb.

Johnny’s not breathing at all, because when Gus’ tongue replaces his thumb, Johnny chokes like he’s been under water for too long, chokes and gasps, and writhes against Gus, and in between Gus’ name, and appeals to God, Gus hears an odd sound, out of place, a kind of buzz.

Johnny’s lifting his head; Gus lifts his too, listening.

And then he remembers the room service, “–the  _fucking_  room service, God  _damn_  them.”

“Oh, God,” Johnny says, his voice not even a whisper; and when he tries to find his feet he ends up sprawling backwards on his ass on the floor, all knees and elbows. The buzz comes again and Gus, kneeling beside Johnny, growls that he’s coming, damn it, and they can just fucking wait; and Johnny’s staring up at him wide-eyed.

“You okay?” Gus says, leaning in to brace Johnny on his arm, helping him pull his pants up. “God, Johnny, I forgot. I can’t believe this.”

“Fine,” Johnny says, struggling with his jeans, twisted, and twisting more. Gus leans in, putting a hand over Johnny’s, and turning Johnny’s face up with his other hand. It’s a soft, quick kiss, meant to reassure more than anything else; but Johnny’s hand comes up around Gus’ neck, pulling him down, closer; and Gus realises with a glad, happy jolt that Johnny’s still  _out_  of it, that Johnny  _wants_  it, him, and that Johnny probably couldn’t add two and two right now.

Not that Gus could either, or would, for that matter.

“C’mon,” he says, giving Johnny a hand up, guiding him into the bedroom, kissing him just once more before returning to the main room, pulling the doors closed behind him, and tucking himself back into his pants before going to the door.

He’s not smiling for more than obvious reasons when he opens it, finally; and the waiter, outside, already nervous, begins to look positively scared. Gus bares his teeth in a facsimile of a social smile and the man begins to stammer an apology.

Gus, on his  _best_  days, is less than interested in the vagaries of restaurants, kitchen and wait staff, and the problems inherent in running service industries; and at this particular moment he’s wishing all of them to the outer reaches of Mongolia. He just manages to stop himself from snapping, but the man’s still stammering excuses and placations: of course there will be no charge, and the next order will be gratis as well, of  _course_...

Gus doesn’t say anything at all, too busy trying to rein in his temper; but when the waiter drops a glass, and then the silverware, he finally has to admit the absurdity of the situation. “Don’t worry,” he says. “We’ve got extras. If you don’t mind...”

He’s never actually thought of himself as intimidating, although he knows others sometimes are intimidated by him; at any rate, it’s clear the waiter shares that view, because his alacrity is either amusing or complimentary – Gus doesn’t really want to think about which just now, and he doesn’t care, either, as long as the man just  _leaves_ , holding a tip that Gus couldn’t justify depriving him of; and then he closes the door just this side of rude, and swings the security bar into place, more to vent his frustration on something inanimate than anything else.

A soft chuckle from the direction of the bedroom brings his head around: Johnny’s got the door partly open, and when he catches Gus’ eye he grins conspiratorially and says, “Coast clear?”

He’s still rumpled; and his jeans are still unbuttoned; and now his feet are bare. And… he’s not even remotely upset, or embarrassed, or any of the other dozen things Gus expected in reaction.

His heart’s in his throat and somehow he manages to swallow, swallow and smile, meeting Johnny’s eyes and crossing the room. “All clear,” he says, and if his voice is a little raspy, well, isn’t that understandable?

“I’m starving,” Johnny says, just a trace of shyness in his voice, as if he wants to reassure Gus but isn’t sure how Gus will take it.

Which, really, is tremendous progress from three days ago, or even this morning; and the last traces of Gus’ bad humour vanish; and he wonders, again, how Zoë could  _not_  love, or at least stay with, this man.

Johnny seems to sense the shift in Gus’ mood: he smiles, less tentatively, and takes one of Gus’ hands in his own. “I smell fries.”

“I got you a double cheeseburger,” Gus says, following him to the table. “I  _thought_  we could eat when you got back, then get dinner later, but it looks like…”

“There’s always late night pizza,” Johnny says cheerfully, pulling out two chairs. “The place we took the guys is open until two or something. I really am starving. I forgot to eat lunch.”

“Late night pizza it is, then,” Gus says, a note in his voice that almost makes him wince in embarrassment; but either Johnny’s used to it (he’s uneasily aware it’s not the first time he’s overheard himself using it lately) or it doesn’t register, because he just smiles at Gus again, pulling the cover off the plate. Gus remembers the dearth of glasses and grabs a couple of beers and forks before he sits down too.

Johnny’s halfway through his burger before he stops to breathe, and Gus isn’t far behind: he really was hungry. And he wasn’t thinking clearly, either, so it’s a good thing, probably, that they –  _he_  – stopped, because there’s no excuse for–

“Oh, hey,” Johnny says, on his feet before Gus has time to blink. “Wait’ll you see – I found a real map.” He’s digging in one of the bags in the kitchen and is back at the table by the time Gus processes what he said. “You were right, there  _are_  no roads. And it has Solomon Gundy on it!” And his hand is on the back of Gus’ neck, just a light momentary pressure, but Gus revels in it nonetheless, and it takes him a few seconds, as Johnny unfolds the map and leans over the table, to realize how very quickly, and effectively, Johnny distracted him.

And here he thought he’d met  _his_  match, but he’s starting to think the impossible, that Zeda might meet  _hers_  in Johnny; and he has to smile, involuntarily, at the prospect of Solomon Gundy living, unwittingly and happily, under the velvet-and-iron paw of Johnny-and-Zeda.

They’d never know what hit them, and the funny, scary part is they wouldn’t  _care_.

Because – and Gus has a hard time admitting it even to himself – if  _he_  can’t bring himself to feel angry, or even annoyed, at being managed so… deftly, Sil, and Thurgood, and even Dempster, don’t have a fucking  _chance_.

Johnny’s looking at him, his eyes warm, one side of his mouth pulled into that not-a-smile that feels so intimate; and since he has every right to be pleased with himself, Gus smiles too and leans in to look at the splotch that’s Solomon Gundy.

“Wow,” Johnny says after a few more bites of his burger – he’s eating standing up, leaning over the map. “It’s, uh, smaller than PEI. How many–”

“Seven thousand, give or take,” Gus says, wiping his mouth on a napkin.

“And… you’re making a province out of it?” Johnny takes another bite of his sandwich.

Gus looks at him sharply, but he seems both interested and guileless. “ _I’m_  not,” he says finally, and with, he hopes, finality: Johnny doesn’t have to pretend to be interested to jolly Gus along, out of his mood, no matter how good his intentions are: that smacks too much of manipulation, of Ottawa, of Noelle, even, and Gus doesn’t want any part of that to touch Johnny.

And his mood’s back, worse than ever: he can’t keep Johnny from being tarnished, no matter what, because anyone who comes in contact, even third hand, with the liars in Ottawa can’t emerge unscathed, intact. Gus has already sold his own soul for this; and now he’s endangering Johnny’s. Suddenly the pile of papers at the other end of the table is looming, ominously large and silent.

“I was looking at some books,” Johnny’s saying, seemingly oblivious – or maybe he  _is_  oblivious.

The tide’s on the ebb, the waves foaming around his feet, and the sand is shifting, being pulled away and out from under him.

“I mean, just, uh, Canadian history type things – it was a used books store, so it wasn’t easy to find stuff – and I didn’t remember how big Newfoundland was,” Johnny continues. “But the guy at the counter had an almanac, and that was cool, because I’m sure we learned it in school but I didn’t know that PEI had so many people, you know? But then we looked up the territories, and there aren’t any people there either. But we couldn’t find anything specific about Solomon Gundy. I didn’t think they’d let you make it a province if it wasn’t enough people, but seven thousand, yeah, I guess that’s cool.” He dips a French fry into Gus’ mayonnaise absently, probably because it’s closer than his own. Then he realises it, looks at Gus guiltily, and turns pink.

For perhaps the third time in his life, Gus is literally speechless: it’s not fool’s gold, after all, just Johnny, hair tawny in the lamplight.

“Sorry,” Johnny’s saying, and the blush is riding up his face. “I – I’m just – sticking my, uh, my foot in it and – I didn’t mean… I didn’t look at anything, honest, I just, uh, moved the papers last night and, uh, I saw the name, and confederation, and you said… Look, I’ll – I’m sorry. How about I go get some more beer or something to make up for it? …I wouldn’t, uh–”

Gus catches Johnny by the hand and pulls him down for a lingering kiss: he almost can’t contain himself, and he wonders if Johnny can feel, or sense, the fireworks, the sparklers, the fucking New Year’s Eve celebration going on inside him.

“It’s not a secret,” he says then, smoothing his thumb across Johnny’s lips. “If I… if I weren’t so close to it I’d… I’d probably have told you more. I didn’t… I wasn’t thinking.”

“No–”

Gus lets Johnny straighten but keeps hold of his hand; and he musters as natural a voice as he can. “The population’s very small; but oddly enough we’re negotiating from a position of some strength. I expect they’ll ultimately lump us in with the Maritimes, or maybe change Newfoundland’s name again, but being a province will give us some of the… autonomy that’s been lacking.” He feels Johnny relax, all the way from his hand to the set of his shoulders; and he hopes to hell that he can quash his paranoia (inborn, learned,  _and_  cultivated) long enough to give Johnny a chance next time, because as sure as Johnny’s standing next to him he knows that Johnny will never cease to surprise him.

And he doesn’t: suddenly Johnny’s looking at him, pointing at him, an amazed grin on his face. “Now I remember! You’re the guys with the, the missiles, right? The Russian sub? It was front page and then, bam, it dropped out of the news, and I never heard what happened.”

That doesn’t surprise Gus, of course: he’s sure the less coverage it got the happier Ottawa was, or would have been; but he’s a little surprised it made the news in Gimli, or anywhere west of Toronto, actually.

“What did happen?” Johnny asks, his smile gone. “Your… your, uh, friend – Dexter – he was killed.”

“Yeah,” Gus says, staring at the map and not really seeing it. “There were… guns, and low flying helicopters from the mainland, and… panic ensued. He was…”

“…caught in the crossfire,” Johnny says, his voice a bare whisper; and he’s kneeling, holding onto Gus’ thighs with both hands. “Yeah. You… you said.”

Gus wants to ask Johnny how he  _remembers_  and at the same time he wants never to think about that night again, wants to forget it for ever, and that’s its own brand of futility and the human condition, as futile as wanting to turn back time, have a second chance.

“And that’s your… that’s the position of, uh, strength,” Johnny says, his own voice far away too. “God.”

He looks up at Gus, then, earnest, honest: “And you’re… you’re still doing this all yourself. It’s not  _fair_ , Gus, not after all that.”

Not myself, Gus wants to say, and can’t; he’s afraid he’ll choke, or sob; so he just shakes his head, not trusting words.

And that Johnny still expects life to be  _fair_ …

Well, at least  _that’s_  bound to piss off Zoë’s ghost, which makes Gus feel marginally better: after all Johnny’s been through with his wife and best friend, that he still thinks there’s some balance sheet in the universe being totted up by God in a green eyeshade, perched high on a stool over a lectern, a bare bulb hanging too high to be of any real use, numbers being moved from one column to the other to make life come out even...

Gus isn’t sure he  _ever_  expected life to be fair; if he did, he can’t remember it. All he remembers, all he’s remembered for years, now, especially late at night, in the fall, after Bunsy’s told the story of the Teazer for the ten thousandth time – all he remembers is telling Noelle that sometimes you have to take what you need if you’re not getting it.

He should have told Dexter instead; it might not have changed anything but at least Dexter would have enjoyed thinking about it.

“I don’t think life is supposed to be fair,” he says, suddenly very tired; and he drains his beer, covering one of Johnny’s hands, still on his thighs, with his free hand. “I think free will pretty much checkmates any possibility of universal justice.”

Johnny’s looking at him, eyes deep and clear as crystal. “Then why does it matter, what we do?”

“I’m not saying we shouldn’t  _try_  to be fair,” Gus says, his brain playing catch-up again: how long  _has_  it been, really, since he’s had actual conversation with someone besides Zeda (and their conversations have run along prescribed lines for a number of years now)? “Life doesn’t start out fair and it doesn’t end up fair. How many people were killed at Auschwitz? How many stood in line, how many breathed a sigh of relief that their neighbour was selected to be killed? That was one more day that they wouldn’t be killed; but someone had to be killed instead or they would have died that day instead of the next, or never; and they had to feel guilty about that, they had to be glad someone else died instead of them that day.  _That’s_ the universal balance of the universe: Jesus had to die for our sins even though he was sinless, a universal, perfect, and oh-so-efficient scapegoat.”

“Auschwitz,” Johnny echoes, pulling himself up and then settling on Gus’ thighs, his legs straddling Gus’; and it’s clear that he’s practicing the word, said the way Gus learned it. “Yeah, but He did die.” He leans in close, taking Gus’ face in his hands. “He died for your sins, and mine. And everyone’s.”

And apparently it is just that simple for Johnny, as simple and uncomplicated as the kiss that follows; and Gus feels almost guilty for disagreeing: “It’s not always like that.”

“If you believe that, that He died for our sins and washed our slate clean, it  _is_  like that,” Johnny says quietly. “I know I, uh, I don’t know as much about it as you, but if you believe that, if you believe in Him, your sins are washed away too. You’re human, Gus… that’s how it works.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Johnny loves Gus’ voice, even now, even when it’s close to breaking; and he loves how Gus says “Auschwitz,” with a ‘v’ for the ‘w.’ But most of all he loves figuring this out, about the island, and Dexter – and  _Gus_ : Jesus isn’t the scapegoat, Gus is, and Gus is dragging both crosses around Calvary, not just his own.

“Auschwitz,” Johnny says, pulling himself up, straddling Gus’ thighs, taking Gus’ face in both his hands. “Yeah, but He did die. He died for your sins, and mine. And… everyone’s.” He kisses Gus then, gently, stroking his fingers through Gus’ hair.

“It’s… not always like that,” and Gus is frowning; Johnny rubs his thumb on the line between Gus’ eyes.

“If you believe that, that He died for our sins and washed our slate clean, it  _is_  like that,” Johnny says quietly, trying not to sound… argumentative. “I know I, uh, I don’t know as much about it as you, but if you believe that, if you believe in Him, your sins are washed away too. You’re human, Gus… that’s how it works.” He’s not sure Gus will be convinced, because he’s pretty sure, now, that Gus thinks he’s not human, or shouldn’t be, or something; and he wants to hit something, he wants to stand on the prairie and scream until his lungs hurt, into the wind, with a blizzard swirling around him so no one can hear him but God.

He wishes he could tell that to Gus, but he doesn’t think he can find a way to say it, so he leans in again and wraps both arms around Gus and holds him, hugs him tight and holds him, resting his head on Gus’ shoulder; and, way too slow, Gus’ arms go around him, loose at first, then tightening; and Gus puts his head down on Johnny’s shoulder.

Johnny wants to hold Gus like this forever, wishes he could; it’s getting harder every hour to think about the future, after Gus goes back to Solomon Gundy, after Johnny goes… wherever, wherever the wind takes him, wherever the wind blows; but he’s here now, and so’s Gus, and this is enough, it’s got to be enough for now.

Johnny’s hoping that it’s enough for Gus, somehow: even a little is better than nothing, and he can’t even remember how old he was the first time he heard that: it’s something he’s always just  _known_.

Gus’ heartbeat is strong and steady; and Gus’ hands are strong and warm; and Johnny squeezes him a little harder for a few seconds, breathing in deep; and then he starts to talk, his voice shaky, because he’s not sure if he’s talking to Gus Knickel or the Anglican priest.

“I believe… I believe in one God, the Father Almighty, Maker of – of heaven and earth, and of all things visible and invisible.”

Gus freezes, his hands falling slack at Johnny’s waist; but Johnny continues, closing his eyes and trying hard to remember, to fall back into the rhythm of the familiar words, words he never thought he’d have to repeat outside of church, every Sunday.

“And in one Lord, Jesus Christ, the only-begotten Son of God, begotten of the Father before all worlds, God of God, Light of Light, very God of very God, begotten, not made, being of one substance with the Father; by whom all things were made; who for us men, and for our salvation, came down from heaven.”

Gus is still frozen, as stiff as a board; so Johnny reaches up, under Gus’ hair at the back of his neck, and unfastens his collar. He’s remembering the words now, in a rhythm, and he keeps talking while he carefully puts the collar behind him, on the table. “And was incarnate by the Holy Ghost of the Virgin Mary, and was made man, and was crucified also for us under Pontius Pilate.”

Gus moves his hand, like a reaction, and then stills again; and Johnny wonders if the collar is a crucifixion, or just a nail in the cross; and he hugs Gus again, not daring to kiss him: he’s no Judas, and he doesn’t want Gus to even think of that. So instead he puts his head back down on Gus’ shoulder, pushing a hand up into Gus’ hair, holding Gus close; and he takes a breath.

“He suffered and was buried; and the third day He rose again according to the Scriptures; and ascended into heaven, and sitteth on the right hand of the Father; and He shall come again with glory to judge the quick and the dead; whose kingdom shall have no end.

“And I believe in the Holy Ghost, the Lord and Giver of life, who proceedeth from the Father and the Son; who with the Father and the Son together is worshiped and glorified; who spake by the Prophets. And I believe in one holy catholic and apostolic Church. I acknowledge one Baptism for the remission of sins; and I look for the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come. Amen.”

“World without end,” Gus whispers, his hands gentle on Johnny’s back again. “Amen.”

And the way he says it, like a prayer, a benediction, makes Johnny relax, relieved: he’s not angry, not upset, at least not about that; and so Johnny chances a kiss, on Gus’ jaw. And then Gus’ fingers are on his chin, pulling his face up so Gus can kiss him, on the lips this time.

And it’s a beautiful kiss, if kisses can be beautiful, and sweet; and Johnny wishes, again, that he could tell Gus all the things he has inside, feels inside, but he can’t (won’t), so he puts them into the kiss instead, taking a page from Gus’ book, licking along Gus’ jawline, kissing the spot on Gus’ neck right by his Adam’s apple, and the hollow at the base of his neck, where his collarbone flares; and then his lips again, taking Gus in, breathing Gus in, trying to wrap himself around Gus like a blanket.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He can’t say when it starts: when he realises what Johnny’s reciting, or when he realises why; or when Johnny removes his collar. All he knows is that, like an orgasm, it seems to come from deep inside him and explode over him, a silent ecstasy.

It’s like someone’s been holding a gun to his head and he only knows it’s gone because the metal barrel, pressed to his forehead and the same temperature as his skin because it’s been there so long, leaves a cool circle where it’s not any more.

No, it’s… not that simple. But it’s all Johnny knows; and in a sense it is that simple: it’s all Gus has to know, or to remember.

It was that simple, for Jesus; it should, could be that simple for his followers.

And Johnny’s not even a “follower,” he’s not a sheep: he just… believes.

Johnny’s gone to church every Sunday, Johnny’s been baptized and confirmed, and, no, Johnny’s never questioned his beliefs, at least not until now; but Johnny’s never going to question the basis of his belief, even if or when he questions interpretations of it.

Belief  _is_ , for Johnny, like existence, like thinking, like… God.

Christ died for Johnny, and for Zoë, and for Gus, and Eric, and for Johnny’s best friend; and he died to wash away all their sins.

Gus is clinging to a branch in floodwaters, watching Johnny float by, holding out a hand: he’s never been able to let go before but this time he  _wants_  to.

In his head, he’s saying the words with Johnny:  _I acknowledge one Baptism for the remission of sins_ …

Johnny’s voice doesn’t falter, even now, at the end; and before Gus knows it, he’s taking Johnny’s hand and letting go of the branch. “World without end,” and Johnny’s back is warm under his hands, Johnny’s head warm against his neck. “Amen.” And he feels Johnny relax under his hands; and he feels Johnny’s lips against his chin.

He turns his own head, finds Johnny’s chin with one hand to pull Johnny close to him, to seal the… prayer (could he call it that?) with a benediction; and he’s not sure if he’s clinging to Johnny or if Johnny’s clinging to him but he gives himself up to the flood, Johnny the only thing he can feel, the only thing he’s sure of at this moment.

Johnny’s trailing kisses down his neck, to the base of his throat, whispering something Gus can’t make out; and then his lips find Gus’ again and he wraps Gus in a fierce, long hug. Gus hugs back, as best he can, reveling in the strength  _and_  the sweetness of him.

When he shifts, without meaning to, Johnny releases him, sitting back, then bracing himself on Gus’ shoulder, coming to his feet. “I’m too heavy,” he says, not looking at Gus, and Gus can see the flush in his cheeks, lean and lovely.

“No,” Gus says, taking Johnny’s face in his hands, feeling the heat and life in his palms, making Johnny look at him. “I think I’m too heavy for you.”

Johnny blushes more fiercely, his eyes falling away again. “No,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “I, uh… no.”

And Gus lets Johnny get his feet under him; but he doesn’t let go Johnny’s face; and once Johnny’s got his balance, Gus leans up and kisses him again. Johnny resists for all of a second, and then braces one hand on the back of the chair behind Gus and gives himself up (again), wholeheartedly; and Gus revels in that too, recalling his senses only when it occurs to him that Johnny must be in a very awkward position.

And that bears closer examination, emotionally and intellectually, but not just now; and he (reluctantly) lets Johnny go, steadying him as he straightens with a hand on his waist.

As he draws in breath to speak, Johnny, his colour still heightened, beats him to the punch: “You, uh, want to finish your, uh, stuff?” He jerks his head at the table behind him. “I’ll clean up, check the, uh, the standings?”

No, Gus wants to say:  _no_.

But Johnny clearly needs to get his mental balance back, and Gus hasn’t found the words yet to articulate his… gratitude, his… feelings; so he gives in, more willingly than he thought he’d be able to, nodding, catching Johnny’s hand in his own and giving it a brief hard squeeze before releasing it.

He wasn’t finished, before, and he’s in no mood to finish now, but it’s only fair – and when did  _that_  happen, that he’s thinking in terms of  _fair_  just like Johnny? – to give Johnny that space to compose himself, so he organizes the notes and thinks of a few more comments for Zeda, steadfastly ignoring Johnny pottering in the kitchen, carrying things into the bedroom and coming back out, steadfastly  _not_  thinking about what just happened, about what Johnny does, has done for him on (practically) a daily basis.

When he looks up again, Johnny’s stretched out on the couch, one bare foot hanging off the end closest to Gus, one arm crooked behind his head, the t-shirt pulled up just enough for Gus to see a crescent of skin between jeans and shirt.

He watches, completely drawn in: Johnny’s chest, rising and falling; Johnny’s face, graver than usual, even in repose; Johnny’s eyes, flicking back and forth on the screen, following the replays, the sound turned down so low Gus can barely hear it.

Johnny stretches, drawing one leg up, making a black triangle against the light-coloured couch; and Gus is back where he started, an hour? two? ago, his mouth suddenly dry, his heart suddenly pounding in his ears.

And this time it’s Gus who’s blushing, when Johnny glances at him and catches him staring; but he doesn’t laugh, or even smile (except for that groove on the side of his mouth, deepening even as Gus watches); he just says, “All set?”

“Yeah,” Gus tries to say, and he can’t, because his throat’s dry, so he nods instead.

“C’mon then,” Johnny says, and pats the couch in front of him. Gus doesn’t remember getting to his feet: if he was in the mood to be blasphemous, which of course he usually is, he’d think the angels are lending his feet wings, because he’s on the couch with Johnny before he knows it, pulled down and held against Johnny’s body, full length, his head pillowed on Johnny’s arm; and Johnny switches the remote to his other hand so he can pull Gus’ hair back, baring Gus’ neck and ear; and Johnny’s lips are warm and soft on Gus’ ear, Gus’ neck; and then Johnny wraps his arm snugly around Gus’ chest, hooks a leg around one of Gus’, and puts his head back down on the arm of the couch.

Gus isn’t used to being the one held; he’s not used to feeling someone behind, above him, warm breath stirring his hair; he’s not  _used_  to feeling… safe and… well, ‘loved’ is a word fraught with dangerous associations and hidden pitfalls, but as long as it’s in his head it’s as good a word as any.

The flood waters slow, and Gus is still holding onto Johnny, but now it’s a summer day with a cool clear stream, sparkling in the sunlight, and the water’s flowing gently, and Gus isn’t worried about drowning any more.

He floats for a while, relaxed, passive; and when he realises that Johnny’s fingers are stroking his chest, he relaxes into that, too: too soon to tell if he means anything by it, and Gus is  _enjoying_  this, enjoying not having to think, enjoying having someone else want him, having someone else start something (if he is).

When Johnny’s fingers find Gus’ nipple, still stroking lightly, Gus smiles and closes his eyes, and leans back against Johnny, taking a deep breath. Johnny takes one too, then drops the remote and pulls Gus back against him with both hands, one pulling Gus’ shirt out of his pants, the other still teasing his nipple through the cloth. He feels Johnny lift his chin, using it to push back Gus’ hair, or hold it back, and then Johnny’s mouth is on his neck, sucking gently.

Johnny’s movements are timeless, slow: by the time he’s reached Gus’ waist, after his hands have explored every inch of skin on Gus’ torso, Gus is hard, not to say  _aching_ ; but no matter how much he pushes back against Johnny’s equivalent hardness, no matter how fast he tries to move, Johnny refuses to be hurried; and Gus never knows where Johnny’s hands will fall next, where Johnny’s lips will touch his skin; and the anticipation is almost more than he can handle.

And Gus is suddenly shaken again with jealousy: did Zoë have this, this unhurried, patient,  _carnal_  seduction? Did she have it, and did she  _appreciate_  it?

He wants to drive all thoughts of her out of his own mind, any thoughts of her out of Johnny’s; a minute ago he wanted Johnny to fuck him just like this, slow and timeless; now he wants to fuck Johnny, fast and  _hard_ , take Johnny over the edge and not give him a chance to think about anything, anyone but Gus.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Johnny’s a little surprised that Gus is being so… patient, maybe, or calm: he’s never seen Gus so still, and it’s kind of driving Johnny crazy, in a good, quiet way, to feel Gus shudder when Johnny bites his shoulder, where Gus wasn’t expecting teeth, or to feel Gus inhale when Johnny’s finger trails along the bottom of Gus’ ribcage. Gus keeps pushing his ass back against Johnny’s cock but Johnny can live with that: he’s not stupid.

When he unfastens Gus’ pants (Gus’ shirt is long gone, unbuttoned and discarded who knows where), Gus’ inhalation is almost a gasp; and he holds his breath so long that Johnny has to bite the back of his neck to make him breathe again; and he runs his hands back up Gus’ ribs, finding the soft skin just below each nipple and tracing around one, then the other, as gently as he can.

Gus tenses, making a sound deep in his throat, and suddenly his calm is gone: he shifts, rolls, and claims Johnny’s mouth in a deep, hard kiss, pushing Johnny down into the couch cushions and moving half on top of him. Johnny’s pants are unfastened before he can breathe again, and his shirt’s pushed up, baring his chest. Gus’ hands are working his jeans down while Gus’ mouth and tongue work Johnny’s nipples and when Gus squeezes Johnny’s ass, now bare, with both hands, Johnny bucks up against him, too close, too damn close, too  _soon_.

But Gus knows it – somehow he  _knows_  – and he immediately gentles his mouth, his hands, sliding up to kiss Johnny again and rolling into, onto Johnny so they’re chest to chest and all bare skin above the waist, and Gus’ pants are giving Johnny something to rub against below. At least, that is, until Johnny’s got hold of Gus’ zipper; and Gus raises up enough for Johnny to push and pull his pants down, boxers too, so that suddenly Johnny’s overheated flesh is smack up against Gus’, wet and warm and, God, so  _hard_.

“That’s it,” Gus breathes into Johnny’s ear; and then he pulls back enough to look at Johnny. When he looks, and looks some more, Johnny feels a blush starting.

Gus laughs and settles back on his heels, pulling Johnny’s jeans all the way down and off. “You… were trying to seduce me, weren’t you. That t-shirt –“

“Not at first,” Johnny says, his own laughter bubbling up inside. “Just now, yeah…”

“I’m surprised you didn’t get arrested for public indecency,” and Gus is leaning in to kiss the inside of Johnny’s knee.

“This is Ottawa, you said.” And Johnny lets the laughter out, and Gus joins in, sputtering a little against Johnny’s thigh; and then his breath is hot, his tongue wet, in the hollow of Johnny’s hip. When Johnny arches, without really meaning to, trying to get closer to that mouth, that gorgeous  _mouth_ , he feels Gus’ hand again, a thumb behind, under his balls, a finger, thick, rigid, right…  _there_.

It’s not hard enough to hurt, it’s really just a graze; and then Gus’ hand is in his mouth, sucking that finger (his middle finger), his cheeks hollowing around it; and Johnny squeezes his eyes shut, holding his breath.

“No,” Gus says, his voice low, “no, Johnny, look at me.”

And Johnny can’t do anything but look, at least until the thumb is back, pushing up and rubbing, a sensation Johnny’s never felt before; and the finger’s sliding in, just the tip, and it feels a thousand times better than Johnny ever imagined.

But Gus doesn’t listen to Johnny’s pleas; and he holds Johnny down with a forearm across his hips; and he rubs his thumb and moves his finger in and out, too little, too slow, wringing noises from Johnny he didn’t know he could make.

And Gus isn’t laughing at him, either: he’s just looking at Johnny like he can’t look anywhere else, like Johnny’s a porch light and Gus is a moth in the dark of the moon. And Gus is making sounds too: “Yeah, Johnny,” and “easy…”

Johnny’s battling self-consciousness and embarrassment but the sex is winning, the sex and the… trust, he guesses, that he has in Gus, that Gus won’t make fun of him, that Gus isn’t thinking that he’s… taking too long or that he’s… inexperienced or… anything except that Gus seems to want to do this as much as Johnny wants him to.

He tries not to think of it but it’s too late: he wonders what Zoë would think, would do, to see him here, half naked on a couch about to get… oh, God…

The heat races up him from his belly to the top of his head; and Gus, watching, licks his lips so slowly Johnny can taste it, from the first curl of his tongue to where it disappears, Gus’ lips pressing together for a second.

“Someday,” Gus says, and his voice is deep, almost gravelly, nothing at  _all_  like his normal voice, “someday, Johnny, I’m going to bend you over and fuck you in those jeans, in that t-shirt, hard and fast, and I’m not going to let you come until you’re on your back so I can  _see_  you come, all over yourself, all over that shirt, all over your jeans.”

Johnny feels his eyes widen, feels the finger probe deeper, the thumb pressing harder; and he wants to come, he  _feels_  it and he  _can’t_.

“Please,” he says, the only thing he can think to say, the only word he can remember.

“No,” Gus whispers. “We’re doing it  _right_. Wait –”

“ _No_ ,” Johnny says, grabbing Gus’ wrist before he can release Johnny. “Jeans. My  _jeans_.”

Gus stops and frowns, startled; and then a smile breaks across his face, part devilish, part tender, and all of it gorgeous; and he leans in to lick Johnny’s belly, his chest, stretching up at the last to find Johnny’s lips; and against them he says, sharing his laughter with Johnny, “You  _were_ …”

“I was,” Johnny whispers back, and it’s a good thing Gus is so close because he’s sure his voice would break if he tried to speak out loud. “I  _will_ ,” he says against Gus’ temple.

“Oh, you  _are_ ,” Gus says, and his laugh is deep, rich, and  _wicked_ ; and Johnny breathes in, trying to take Gus inside him every way he can, suddenly frantic, pulling at Gus and spreading his legs wide, and it takes a few moments, a long tender kiss, for Gus to bring Johnny back to his senses.

“You  _have_  to listen,” Gus is saying firmly; but he’s rocking up against Johnny, cock to cock, and listening is not exactly what Johnny’s thinking about.

When he says that, breathless, Gus laughs again, long and loud, throwing his head back, his hair tumbling and wild, and Johnny tries to imprint this moment on his memory forever, like Sigrid before she jumped into the lake: he never wants to forget this, the power, the sheer beauty –

He digs his heels into the couch cushion and pushes up against Gus, tilting his hips; and Gus’ cock slides down, rubbing against Johnny’s balls, then butting up behind them. “Yeah,” Johnny gasps, his fingers white on Gus’ shoulders; and Gus shudders, pushes a little more, then takes a breath and tries to pull back.

“No,” Johnny says, dropping one foot to the floor and making Gus pull him up, pushing forward so he’s got a knee between Gus’ thighs and his hand is around the back of Gus’ neck. And Gus leans forward in answer, but he’s feeling behind him with one hand, and Johnny doesn’t want to think, doesn’t want Gus to think.

He grabs behind Gus’ knees and pulls, and Gus goes down, flat on his back, just as he comes up with the jeans; but Johnny doesn’t stop, he goes down too, pushing Gus into the couch and straddling him, trying to shift so that Gus’ cock is there, trying to drive Gus wild, trying to get Gus to stop thinking so Johnny can stop thinking, stop… worrying, just  _be_ , with all of Gus’ wildness and strength and beauty in _side_  him. Gus’ cock is wet, wet enough to slide into the crack of his ass, and Johnny moves just enough so it slides, back and forth and not nearly enough pressure.

“Johnny,” and Gus’ voice is high, high and unfamiliar enough to make Johnny blink, and look at Gus; and Gus’ hips surge up once more, like Gus can’t help it, but then Gus stops. “You… have to take it easy.”

“I  _can’t_ ,” Johnny blurts, desperate; and he’s flushing again, bright red, he knows, and then he’s blushing on top of the blush because it’s so fucking stupid that he’s thirty-six and can’t get his shit together long enough to –

“You  _can_ ,” Gus says, quiet and – and strong; and Johnny wants to cry, wants to hide under the bed, wants to hitchhike to Montreal and never have to look him in the eye again, because Gus understands too much and Johnny didn’t know it would be like this, that it could be like this, that someone could  _know_  him like this; and he’s not sure if  _he_  can handle it, let alone Gus.

“Hey, old son,” Gus says, even more gently, leaning up, putting his palm flat against Johnny’s cheek, his thumb brushing the side of Johnny’s mouth. “You’re thinking too much. Let it go, let me –”

Johnny turns his face into Gus’ hand, biting his bottom lip; his hard-on’s going going – “I  _can’t_ –”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Gus isn’t sure what’s going on, and he  _hates_  that, he’s always hated being left out of things. Johnny’s panicking, Johnny’s scared – he can think of a half dozen reasons for Johnny to be, yes, ‘freaking’ at this point, and none of them good.

But gentle and reasonable isn’t working (and, really, when did it ever?), so he grips Johnny’s upper arms and shakes him, just a little; and he pretends not to see Johnny’s overbright eyes or to notice Johnny’s flagging erection.

“You  _can_ ,” he says steadily, looking directly at Johnny. “And you  _will_.”

And Johnny swallows hard, but he doesn’t struggle, or push away; and Gus chances letting him go, putting a hand on his chest, pressing hard enough that Johnny sits back, sits back and takes another breath.

“Now,” Gus says, pulling Johnny’s jeans into his lap and feeling for the pockets, still not letting Johnny look away from him, “we can do this. Or we won’t. But we’re going to do it right, if we do it; and if we’re not going to do it, I’m going to stretch you out and suck you off right here and now, because I am  _hungry_  for you. You are the hottest damn thing I’ve ever  _seen_ , Johnny Johannsson, and there is  _nothing_  I don’t want to do with you. Understand?”

Johnny’s cheeks are pink, almost the same colour as his lips; but his gaze remains steady. “I’m not scared,” he says, pretty quietly but with conviction in his voice all the same. “I’m not. I  _want_ …”

Gus has to bite his tongue: what he wants to say (“who are you trying to convince?”) won’t help matters, and he still can’t tell if Johnny’s panicking or if it’s something else. And everything he can think of to say sounds tired and clichéd; he doesn’t want to sound like he’s handing Johnny a line.

He pulls his legs out from under him and settles back against the couch; and he drops the jeans and pulls Johnny over to him, against him, so Johnny’s straddling him; and he pushes Johnny’s head down to his shoulder. “I’m not surprised you want,” he says finally, quietly; and the muscles on Johnny’s back relax infinitesimally under his hand. “You’re so… you love being touched, you love sex… of course you  _want_.”

“Just like you.” Johnny’s voice is muffled but Gus is pretty sure there’s a smile in it; and he drops a kiss on Johnny’s shoulder, still rubbing his back.

“You bet,” he says into Johnny’s ear, lascivious as he can, and he’s rewarded by a small chuckle. “I’ve got lots of ideas, but I’ve also got a few questions.”

“No, not again,” Johnny groans, and Gus is too taken aback to even laugh for a few seconds; when he does, he roars, his head thrown back, tears in his eyes by the time he’s finished: and Johnny’s sitting back, watching, looking far too satisfied.

“Smart ass,” Gus growls and leans in to suckle a matching mark on the other side of Johnny’s neck: within moments, Johnny’s smile is gone and so is his detachment.

“God,” Johnny gasps when Gus lets go, his palms warm against Gus’ nipples, “you don’t play fair!” His cock, fully erect again, is poking Gus in the stomach.

“It all evens out in the end,” Gus says against his neck, licking the mark, feeling Johnny tremble in response. “When did you have sex for the first time? How old were you?”

“Oh, God, no,” Johnny says, dropping his head to Gus’ shoulder; and he’s blushing again. “You were, uh, probably fourteen or something and –”

“Fifteen,” Gus says mildly. “Eighteen? Nineteen? Twenty?”

“I can’t do this,” Johnny whispers. “You’re so – and I’m, uh… yeah, I was nineteen and… it didn’t really count, okay? I don’t – I know I don’t know  _shit_  and –”

“Jesus,” Gus says, frankly astounded. “Jesus, Johnny, I was kidding, I was teasing! I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to embarrass–”

“No,” Johnny says quickly, lifting his head again. “See, this is – this is the thing, isn’t it? I’m – I don’t know what I’m doing, just – just what I  _want_  and it’s… I don’t know if it’s enough. I’m sitting here about to –  _wanting_  to – take a – a – a cock up my – my ass and I don’t really know how I  _got_  here, how I got from – from the guys in the dressing room, making fun of it to – to here, and I’m here and I  _want_ it, and you –  _you_  wanted it, Jesus, Gus, you came all  _over_  and I never saw anything like that  _ever,_  but–”

Gus is too shocked to even think for a moment, but he grabs Johnny’s hands and holds them. “Whoa, whoa,  _whoa_ ,” he says, pulling one hand to his mouth and pressing his lips to Johnny’s knuckles. “You  _are_  fucking thinking too much, Johnny. I am not comparing you, I am not thinking of anything, or anyone, but  _you_.”

“I know that,” Johnny says impatiently, but he doesn’t pull his hands away. “You said that, that you don’t – wouldn’t play games. I don’t  _want_  to think about it, I just want to  _do_  it, just–”

“Get it over with?” Gus says, keeping his voice deliberately, deceptively mild.

Johnny looks stricken; and his hands suddenly fall lax in Gus’ grip. “No,” he says after a minute. “I didn’t mean it like – like that.”

“But once it’s… over… then what?”

“I’ll – I’ll know, I guess,” Johnny says earnestly, looking at Gus intently; and, again, Gus bites his tongue, trying to figure out the real issue. “It’s – the bridge – it’s a bridge to cross, it’s – it’s part of this… this, uh, this  _thing_  we’re, uh, we’re doing, part of… part of… oh, God it sounds dumb, I’m sorry. I guess… I guess I’m just, uh, seeing if it’s… if it’s really me.”

Gus holds Johnny’s hands, almost too tightly, he realises absently, but he doesn’t loosen his grip, just rubs his thumbs across Johnny’s knuckles. This morning – was it just this morning? – Johnny said he didn’t know who he was.

Or, maybe, what.

Life is, or was, pretty black and white in Johnny’s world.

The good part of that is that Johnny believes. Johnny believes hard enough, and deep enough, that he can reach even Gus’ cynical soul; but the bad part is when some of those beliefs are called into question, Johnny’s about as rudderless as a coracle.

And so far Johnny’s done pretty well, drifting along, these past few days, but…

“I wish I could tell you who you are,” he says quietly. “I wish I could tell you what I see, who I see, who I think you are, but you’re right – you’re the only person who can really know. On the other hand, just so you’re clear on this, if the question is ‘am I gay?’ the answer is  _not_  ‘only if, or when, I take it up the ass.’”

“How do you  _know_  this stuff?” Johnny says, his voice soft and amazed. “I’m so – I’m sorry you have to–”

“I  _want_  to,” Gus interrupts, rude as hell and just not  _caring_  any more. “I want  _this_ , I want  _you_. I want – I want to know everything about you, Johnny, I don’t just want to fuck you. Don’t you get that? I’d rather sit here all fucking  _night_  and hear about the fucking ponies at your sixth fucking birthday party than just  _fuck_.”

“You would not,” and Johnny’s voice isn’t quite steady, but his eyes are, and it’s the same look he had in them this morning, when Gus handed him the note, when he was on the phone with Eric; and Gus can’t do anything but lean in, lean in and hold Johnny’s face in his hands again, feel the prick of stubble against his palms, lean in and hold Johnny, kiss Johnny, wish he could say how… how  _dear_  Johnny is.

“You’re right,” he whispers against Johnny’s lips. “Half the night, maybe; and the other half for this.”

“And it wasn’t ponies,” Johnny whispers back.

“Please, God, tell me it wasn’t clowns,” Gus murmurs, trailing kisses up to the corner of Johnny’s left eye, smoothing Johnny’s right eyebrow with his thumb. “Or rotten shark.”

“No, and they weren’t fucking,” Johnny says, a grin lighting his eyes. “I can’t wait to see the kids’ parties on Solomon Gundy.”

“It’s just fucking sheep,” Gus says meaninglessly, unable to keep from smiling back.

“Lucky sheep,” Johnny whispers. “Spoiled sheep.” He’s leaning in close, hypnotically close, and Gus closes his eyes, a small moment of ecstasy, thanking God – for the first time in a long time – for everything in his arms (and lap) just now, just this perfect, discrete  _second_  of existence; and the next second is even better, Johnny’s lips moving over his, gently at first, and then more assertive, Johnny’s tongue, warm, wet, sliding between Gus’ lips; and Gus opens to Johnny,  _is_  open to Johnny, with a warmth inside that has nothing, and everything, to do with Johnny pressed against him, with Johnny’s skin under Gus’ hands, with Johnny’s groin moving, oh so gently, against Gus’.


	3. mardi: soirée (revenons à nos moutons)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If you find the sheep porn, well, it’s not going to shock you now.”

##  vii. mardi: soirée (revenons à nos moutons)

It ends up being so much easier than Johnny ever thought: lucky sheep, spoiled sheep, and Gus kissing him back like Johnny hasn’t been falling apart on him on a regular basis… so when Johnny whispers, “Spoil me?” he doesn’t even blush, not this time, because Gus knows everything there is to know and it doesn’t seem to  _matter_.

And it’s just as easy to lay back, on the couch, with Gus between his legs, squeezing more stuff from the tube he (finally) found in the back pocket of Johnny’s jeans; and the heat that rises from his skin when Gus leans in, when he feels Gus’ finger there, it’s got nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with Gus and  _him_.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” and Gus’ voice is low, throaty; and even that doesn’t scare him, not now, even though it should, his legs spread wide and a thick finger pushing into his ass, his cock hard on his stomach.

“So are you,” Johnny says, or thinks he says, because the finger feels even better than he thought it would and he’s moving on it, trying to get more of it. Gus seems to get that, too, which doesn’t surprise Johnny: he moves it in and out, smooth but faster, his thumb back in that – that place under Johnny’s balls, and  _that_  feels so good he hardly notices that Gus is moving his finger around instead of in and out, rubbing down and around and back up.

“Gus,” he says suddenly, because it’s important; and Gus looks up, caught unaware, surprised, his own skin flushed and his hair falling down across his forehead; and his finger slows.

“Okay?” Gus says, which of course would be the first thing he thinks of, and Johnny nods, grabbing Gus’ wrist before he can pull the finger all the way out.

“It’s  _great_ ,” he says in all honesty, and it’s true, he didn’t know it’d feel like that, he never even thought of touching, being touched there before. “Just… uh… I wanted you to know that I  _know_. That I am gay, or bi, or whatever. I  _know_. That’s all.”

“Okay,” Gus says softly; and it’s been too long since they kissed, so Johnny leans up and pulls Gus down, not even minding when the finger’s gone; and this time, when he moves his hips, when he wraps his legs around Gus’, Gus doesn’t pull back, Gus just kisses deeper, harder, so hard they can’t breathe and neither of them wants to come up for air but they have to, he has to, because it’s easier to pant (and moan) than to try to suck air in through his nose.

And he’s still panting, panting harder, when he feels Gus reach for the tube again; and he waits for panic but it doesn’t come, because Gus is still there, and  _there_ , and he  _knows_  Johnny.

“Okay?” Gus asks again, bracing himself on one hand above Johnny; the other one, the one Johnny can’t see, the other one is holding Gus’ cock, wet and warm, right there between them. The tendons are standing out in Gus’ neck, and he’s breathing hard, but he’s looking right at Johnny, right  _into_  Johnny, and Johnny knows that if he says no, if he says wait, if he says not okay, Gus will listen; and there’s still no panic.

“Yeah,” he says, and he finds a grin from somewhere. “Come on, spoil me.”

“God,” Gus says thickly, like he forgot he had a tongue for a second. “God, Johnny.” And he lowers himself, a little shaky, and Johnny reaches up to meet him, to lose himself in Gus’ beautiful, clever, sweet mouth while he feels Gus’ cock pressing _in_ , not enough to hurt, or maybe it’s that it’s so wet –

In, out, like the finger, only bigger, and Johnny can feel Gus’ hand, too, wrapped around his cock; and he puzzles that out, or tries to, then realizes all at once that it’s so Gus won’t go in too… fast, maybe, or too deep.

But it’s okay, he tries to say, digging his heels into the couch cushions again and trying to push up onto Gus, push Gus into him: it doesn’t hurt, at least not yet, and he can  _take_  it anyway.

“I know,” Gus is saying, somewhere above him. “You can, you  _will_ , Johnny. Just… oh God, please, Johnny, just let me–”

“Yeah,” Johnny says, pushing up again, twisting his hips, trying,  _trying_  – “just–”

“Wait,” Gus pants, leaning his shoulder against the back of the couch, pulling out and away.

“Jesus, Gus–”

But Gus is feeling around on the cushions, between them: the tube must have slipped down, but Johnny doesn’t know why the hell Gus is bothering, he’s  _ready_ –

Cold gel shocks him into breathing again, backs him down; then Gus is rubbing more on himself. Johnny wriggles down, closer to Gus’ cock, raising his hips.

“Okay,” Gus says, and, amazingly, laughs. “Johnny, I get it, you’re okay with this, but this is going to hurt–”

“Then  _let_  it,” Johnny says,  _not_  feeling at all like laughing. “ _Please_.”

Gus looks at him, too seriously, for too long; but just when Johnny’s about to snap, he nods and leans in again, finding Johnny’s mouth with his own, and his cock is back, the head slipping in, further this time; and Gus is right (big shock there), there’s a burn, but it doesn’t  _hurt_ , it’s nothing like blowing out a knee or getting a stick in the jaw.

Gus is shaking, his head on Johnny’s shoulder, and Johnny can even feel his hand, the one still around Gus’ cock, shaking too.

“I’m good,” Johnny whispers, rubbing both hands down the tensed muscles of Gus’ back. “So good… c’mon…”

He feels Gus’ breath on his neck, moist and warm; and then Gus is pushing in again. More burn, more stretch and he didn’t know it would feel like  _this_ , that he’d be able to feel Gus’  _heartbeat_ , that every sensation would be blown up and slowed down; and he pants too, along with Gus, rocking his hips, trying to get  _more_ , get  _filled_.

And finally, finally Gus’ hand is pulling away, sliding up between them to cup Johnny’s cock. Gus is still breathing hard against Johnny’s neck, moving so slow he’s  _killing_  Johnny, and Johnny can’t believe how  _patient_  Gus is, how much control he has, because Johnny’s not even doing anything and it’s killing  _him_.

“That’s it,” Gus whispers, his voice barely recognizable, hoarse and throatier than before. “Oh, God, Johnny, so beautiful, so tight, you are so  _hot_ , I can’t –”

“Do it, do it, do it,” Johnny chants, almost under his breath, punctuating the words with small upward thrusts. “Please, Gus, please –”

Gus groans, an animal sound, and bites Johnny’s shoulder, and shudders and pushes and suddenly Johnny’s  _full_ , he’s fucking _full_ , Gus’ cock stretching him out, filling him up, thick and hot and throbbing inside him; and he can feel Gus’ soft dark hair pushing up under his balls, and he can feel Gus’ balls tight and warm in the crack of his ass.

He’s not sure what he’s saying and it doesn’t matter because once Gus starts to move, so slow it’s  _torture_ , once Gus starts to move Johnny forgets everything else, the universe just one point, the point where Gus is joined to him. He’s not sure who’s groaning: both of them, he thinks wildly when Gus lifts his head to kiss Johnny, to moan into his mouth, or Johnny’s maybe moaning into Gus’ because Gus is  _moving_  now, pushing in and out, a steady rhythm, and every few strokes there’s a delicious spark, a flicker that makes Johnny tighten up everywhere, makes him feel like he could come the next second; and he drives harder, pushing up against Gus, trying to spark that flicker again and again and… “Oh, fuck…”

“Oh my God,” and Gus is biting his chin, his jaw, his hands pressing Johnny’s shoulders down, holding him down, bracing himself on Johnny while he drives in, harder, faster, and the spark’s caught fire: Johnny’s clawing at Gus and choking and coming harder than he’s ever come in his life, harder and longer and  _better_ , Gus’ cock hard and long  _inside_  him, and he never knew, never knew, never had any idea it would feel like  _this_ , his ass surging, clenching, Johnny  _fucking_  himself on Gus’ cock.

Gus shudders again, dropping down onto Johnny and wrapping both arms around him tight; and then Johnny feels it, feels _Gus_  coming, surging into him, thicker and harder than before, grunting and moaning into Johnny’s neck, sounds and even broken words wrapping around Johnny like a warm blanket, words and Gus both.

And when Gus finally relaxes, Johnny does too, wrapping his arms around Gus too, holding him tight, well, as tight as he can with arms and legs that suddenly feel like wet noodles, pushing one hand up into Gus’ hair to hold the back of his head, and he lets his eyes close.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Gus’ breathing is slowing, and his heart rate too. He’s pretty sure he couldn’t move if he tried, and he’s not sure he wants to.

Ever.

Thank God there’s no question Johnny was into it, because Gus hadn’t quite meant things to go that fast, especially with a perfectly good bed in the other room.

But he  _can’t_  find it in himself to care just now.

Johnny’s breathing has slowed too, and Gus is pretty sure – after only three days, he already knows this about Johnny – that he’s dozing, but his hand is warm, cupping the back of Gus’ head, his thumb moving from time to time.

He could stay like this all night.

He just might.

The mark he made on Johnny’s neck is at the end of his nose: if he closes one eye, he can see it. He moves just enough to press his lips there, and he senses rather than feels Johnny smile, somewhere above him.

“Awesome,” Johnny says, his voice rumbling in his chest, where Gus’ ear is pressed; and he smiles himself to hear the echo of Eric’s voice in Johnny’s.

“Yeah.” Gus sighs and then takes a breath; Johnny’s arms tighten around him, anticipating and already protesting.

“Not too heavy,” Johnny whispers, turning his head and kissing Gus’ forehead.

Cuddly and sweet, and Gus subsides without a murmur; and wouldn’t Noelle laugh to see Gus wrapped around Johnny’s little finger, especially when she never could. And that’s another reason to keep her away from Johnny: she could hurt him without even trying. Hell, she could  _eviscerate_  him, and Gus only controls his almost involuntary shudder through an enormous effort – that’s not a conversation he ever wants to have with Johnny, and he shouldn’t have to.

Maybe by the weekend they can finally head out to Montréal… the lawyers were noncommittal (still) about a time frame but Gus honestly doesn’t see why not, and Zeda agreed, when he talked to her earlier.

Johnny’s hands are stroking his back again, and he wonders what they look like, wrapped together on the couch; he wonders if a photographer could see his face, or Johnny’s, in the lengthening shadows of the room, or if a picture would only show anonymous arms and legs and bodies.

He can feel Johnny’s cock, trapped between them, flaccid in the hollow of Gus’ stomach. His own cock, no longer hard, is still (amazingly) inside Johnny.

And, to be honest, he’s taken aback at how easily Johnny took him: as warm and open as the rest of Johnny, like there’s nothing Johnny could hide or close away even if he tried. Oh, it’s not actually true, but as a metaphor for Johnny he’ll go with it; and he closes his eyes again and tries to hold Johnny just a little closer.

His first time – God, how many years now? – had hurt like hell and he hadn’t even thought of orgasm, except perhaps an orgasm of relief when it was over; but then again (warming to the metaphor) Gus has spent most of his life closed off from all but a few people.

And it was true that, when he had finally,  _finally_  been able to get his head around the idea, he’d opened to Jack the way he had to Johnny, and now that he thought about it, it hadn’t (just) been Jack’s experience, but the almost-instant bond of friendship (not to mention flat-out lust) between them.

“I can’t wait to do that again,” Johnny says softly, combing his fingers through Gus’ hair, pulling Gus back to the present. “I really  _didn’t_  know.”

Gus sorts through all the things he wants to say, could say, but settles (again) for direct: “Me either.”

Johnny chuckles, a warm vibration under Gus’ ear, and he smiles too, opening his mouth to–

The ring of the phone makes them both jump and Gus feels Johnny’s heart begin to pound wildly; his cock finally slips out and Gus pulls back to his knees, remembering only now that this isn’t his couch and thanking his lucky stars that Johnny’s jeans ended up underneath them somehow.

“The phone?” Johnny says, his eyes wide, his body twisting–

“Let it ring, they’ll call back if it’s important,” Gus says, leaning over Johnny to get a tissue from the end table. He wipes Johnny gently, carefully, checking for blood; and Johnny watches him curiously.

“So the, uh, the condoms, were those for the sheep or something?” he asks finally, still watching Gus; and Gus has suddenly fallen overboard into icy, rough water, waves crashing and closing over his head. He literally can’t breathe for a few seconds, just staring at Johnny; and Johnny stares back, as confused as before.

“Good God, Johnny, I completely forgot,” and Gus realizes only then his voice, his hands, are trembling.

“I don’t care,” Johnny says, clearly bewildered, his smile fading. “I hate them. I didn’t – Gus, it’s okay, honest, I don’t, uh, I don’t have anything.”

“ _You_?” Gus says and tries not to laugh; he doesn’t succeed, and the sound makes even him wince. “Great bleeding Jesus, Johnny, what about  _me_? How the hell do you know that  _I_  don’t have anything? Christ on a fucking  _crutch_ , what the hell is wrong with me?”

“Nothing,” Johnny says immediately, sitting up and pushing Gus down onto his back, holding him there with both hands on his shoulders. “ _Nothing_. You just  _think_  there is, because you think you have to be perfect or something. Only Jesus was perfect, and even when He wasn’t, God forgave him. So ease up, Gus, and lay off yourself for five fucking  _minutes_ , okay?”

And Gus wouldn’t swear that Johnny isn’t  _shaking_  him and he knows his mouth has gone slack with surprise, because he suddenly snaps it shut.

“I’m sorry,” Johnny says, easing back a little, his voice suddenly shaky. “God, Gus, I – I just meant–”

But Gus doesn’t give him a chance to apologise for anything,  _any_ thing else: he pulls Johnny down and wraps his arms around him and loses himself in Johnny’s mouth, in the feel and the taste and the smell of Johnny, in the warm solid weight of Johnny on top of him; and he whispers his own apologies into Johnny’s mouth, and Johnny’s ear, and when Johnny sniffs, Gus finds his shirt by feel on the floor next to the couch and wipes Johnny’s eyes.

“I still can’t wait to do it again,” Johnny finally whispers against his cheek; and Gus has no answer except to hug Johnny tight, tighter, and kiss him, there, at the outer corner of Johnny’s eye, where the skin is soft and a little salty.

A sharp rap on the door makes them both jump again and Johnny’s practically on his feet before Gus can stop him. Another rap, gentler; and then he hears Noelle’s voice.

It’s like a bad dream, it really is.

“Auguste! Are you there?”

Johnny bends over, fumbling for his jeans, and Gus pulls him down, pushing him back, putting a hand over his mouth. The TV’s on, but the sound is down; and it’s still light enough outside that there’d be no betraying glow outside in the corridor.

“Shhhhh,” he whispers in Johnny’s ear. “Shhhh. She’ll go away eventually.”

Johnny twists in his grasp, looking even more bewildered than before. “But –” he says against Gus’ hand; and Gus pulls his hand away and covers Johnny’s mouth with his own.

“She’ll go away,” he whispers again, kissing Johnny as persuasively as he can, running one hand up his chest to find a nipple, finding Johnny’s subsequent inhalation very gratifying.

“God – Gus – you’re – we  _can’t_ …”

“No,” Gus says, not sure if he’s arguing or agreeing, rubbing his thumb across Johnny’s collarbone, following with his mouth, almost forgetting to be quiet: somehow he knows Noelle’s still out there, listening intently.

Johnny shudders, arching against him, and Gus gets a hand over his mouth just in time to stifle Johnny’s whimper when Gus’ teeth scrape Johnny’s already-taut nipple.

He wants to bury himself in Johnny’s body again, and again; he wants to feel the strength of Johnny under him, around him; he wants to hear Johnny moan, he wants to feel Johnny moan against him, and he still can’t understand how Johnny does this to him; and he hopes, fiercely, that he does this to Johnny too.

“Gus! I know you are there!”

Johnny tenses again and Gus chuckles against his skin, provoking another moan, another shudder. “She doesn’t know,” he whispers, sliding up to Johnny’s neck, kissing his chin, then his lips. “She suspects. The drawback of doing business with an ex…”

Johnny moves convulsively under him, gasping his name, his cock swelling (again). “This is so wrong,” he whispers, biting the finger that Gus has on his lips. Gus just grins and rubs Johnny’s firming erection gently.

“Just pretend you’re trying to have sex when your parents are home,” he whispers back, biting Johnny’s chin, licking him after.

“Oh  _God_ ,” Johnny gasps, suddenly fully hard and thrusting into Gus’ hand. “I never–”

“Shhhh,” Gus whispers, covering Johnny’s mouth with his own and picking up Johnny’s rhythm. “I got you, Johnny.”

And he has to admit, later, that he doesn’t really know when Noelle finally gave up: Johnny, writhing in his hands, moaning in his mouth, gasping his name, broken words, his cock hard and slick in Gus’ grasp – Johnny’s diversion has turned into Gus’ and they’re both gasping for breath when Johnny’s eyes squeeze shut and his cock spurts between the two of them, Gus holding him through it, swallowing his moans and then licking the (scant, this time) semen from Johnny’s body as Johnny’s breathing finally slows.

“Oh, God, oh God,” Johnny’s saying, barely above a whisper, his hands smoothing Gus’ hair. “I can’t believe you did that… is she…”

“She’s gone,” Gus says, with a certainty he can’t explain. “Not that I care. I could drink you down all night, Johnny, and I’m going to before the night’s over.”

“That makes no sense,” Johnny says, trying not to laugh and ending up snorting.

“I don’t want to make sense,” Gus says, laughing himself and leaning in to rub his nose against Johnny’s. “I just want  _us_.”

Johnny snickers again, then laughs out loud, and then pulls Gus down, their teeth clicking because both of them are laughing almost too hard to kiss; but it doesn’t really matter.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Life with Gus – or this thing with Gus – it’s not like a roller coaster after all, or even a carousel, with the horses going up and down and the world spinning.

It’s like one of those marble games, where the marble goes down the track but sometimes a piece flips and it goes another way, and then it spins into a funnel and pops out somewhere else.

Not that he  _can_  think right now, panting for breath after Gus made him come  _again_ , with his ex-girlfriend standing right outside the door, and Johnny’s not sure if he’s breathless from that or from Gus’ sheer audacity.

And he wonders, not for the first time, how on earth Gus got ordained and not… not excommunicated or whatever it is.

And he finally thinks, or remembers, that Gus didn’t–

“I’m fine,” Gus says, following Johnny’s gaze and then grinning: his cock is half-hard, between his legs, and he’s leaning back casually, an arm on the back of the couch. “You wore me out. Shower?”

“I don’t think I can walk,” Johnny says, grinning back. “Give me a few.”

“Take as many as you want,” and suddenly Gus isn’t smiling any more, he’s intent and leaning in, his eyes on Johnny’s mouth; and Johnny takes in a breath. “Yeah,” Gus says, his breath fanning across Johnny’s face; and then he’s kissing Johnny, gently but thoroughly, like he can’t help himself or he doesn’t want to stop. “Anything,” he’s whispering when he breaks the kiss, and Johnny echoes him without really meaning to.

“Thirsty?” Gus says then, resting a hand on Johnny’s head. “I’ll get us some water.”

And Johnny’s suddenly as dry as a desert: the power of suggestion, every hockey player knows that, but he drinks down the bottle Gus brings over regardless. Gus, halfway through his own, is watching Johnny, the bottle at his lips: “Guess I’m taking it out of you.”

Since he has every right to look as smug as he sounds, Johnny just grins at him and stretches, arms over his head and all the muscles in his back, and his legs, right down to his feet. When he opens his eyes again, Gus is watching him, the water apparently forgotten. “You are so fucking incredible,” Gus says quietly, and he sounds so serious that Johnny feels the heat rush up over him. “I wish…”

Johnny swings his legs over the side of the couch, finding the floor and stretching down, this time, arms over his head again. “You are,” he says to the floor, to Gus’ feet, strong as the rest of him, compact, high-arched: even his feet are gorgeous. “You don’t know…”

“No,” Gus says, moving closer, forcing Johnny to sit up, look up; and Gus is reaching out a hand that Johnny takes without even thinking. “I’ve heard, mind you, but I’m used to it. I’m glad you’re not.”

Johnny grins back, but he says, “I don’t think I’ll ev – I could ever get used to it, I mean, you… your eyes, your, uh, your _mouth_ … you’re really… beautiful, the – your soul, I mean, in your eyes, they say, and–”

And he really couldn’t sound any stupider, but again Gus doesn’t seem to care: he reaches a hand to Johnny’s face and just rests it there, against Johnny’s cheek. “If you’re seeing beauty,” he says, and his voice is deep again, “I think you’re seeing a reflection of your own soul, Johnny, because I’ve never met anything or anyone like you.”

“Gus…”

“Don’t be embarrassed,” Gus says, moving in closer, putting his other hand on Johnny’s other cheek. “It’s the plain truth, and what’s even more beautiful, and true, is that I can say it to you.” He leans in then, kissing Johnny on the forehead, and then the nose, knowing – he must know – that’ll make Johnny smile. So Johnny does smile, and then wraps a hand around the back of Gus’ neck and pulls him in close for a real kiss, on the lips, a long sweet kiss, the two of them skin to skin and naked, fitting together better than Johnny’d ever dreamed anyone could, or would, with him.

The phone rings again; again they both jump, and Johnny has to smile when Gus growls, “Fuck  _off_.”

“It might not–”

“It’s her,” Gus says, finishing his bottle in a few angry gulps. “She’s possibly more paranoid than I am, although that’s doubtful; at any rate, I am not thinking about her right now. Shower?”

“Paranoid about what?” Johnny asks, following Gus into the bedroom. “Uh, not – not us…”

“God, no,” Gus says, his voice echoing off the tiles in the bathroom. “She’s done a lot of… brokering, for lack of a better term, and she’s anticipating the end of her… well, if I were to be unchristian, I’d say ‘power’ but the more polite term would be ‘usefulness.’ And she can’t really follow me to Solomon Gundy: there are several islanders who’d probably hang her on sight, or at least skin her alive. So she’s probably feeling–”

“Desperate,” Johnny says, feeling hollow: suddenly he understands how she feels, or how he’d feel, if he were Noelle.

“Yeah,” Gus says, coming back into the bedroom and looking at him curiously. He looks again and then crosses the room to take Johnny by the shoulders.

“Desperate for power, influence – not for  _me_ ,” he says quietly. “It was her choice to leave, Johnny. I don’t want her now, and my heart wasn’t broken,  _isn’t_  broken. Understand?”

“Of course,” Johnny says brightly: this was probably what drove Zoë away, this… need, this – what did she call it once? – clinginess; and this is exactly what (clearly!) Gus doesn’t like, or want – Noelle’s need is making Gus angry. Which makes sense: Gus is about as self-sufficient as they come, and it’s not at all hard to believe (now) his heart wasn’t broken by Noelle.

“No,” Gus says firmly, “not ‘of course,’ Johnny. She didn’t want or need  _me_ ; I was a bandage for her… ego, I was a pawn in some personal scores she was settling with other people; I was, probably, a respite from the tempest that she lived in, and has gone back to: she likes it swirling around her, she likes the drama, she needs that drama, Johnny, and I don’t. I hate it. I want peace and joy in my life, in my home; she wants drama, melodrama, even: she creates it if she can’t find it.”

“Oh,” is all Johnny can think to say; but his heart’s near to bursting, not only from Gus’ words but because he was just plain wrong about Noelle.

“She’s not you,” Gus says quietly, his thumb stilling on Johnny’s shoulder. “If… you ever meet her, if you… think she’s like you, she’ll – she could hurt you, Johnny, because she’s  _not_  like you. You can’t give – people like that the benefit of the doubt, because they can’t understand your… heart.”

“How…” Johnny’s heart is racing and he can’t begin to understand what Gus is saying.

“How?” Gus echoes, looking at him, that crease back between his eyebrows.

“How… can… how can she not want  _you_?” Johnny whispers, feeling more than inarticulate, dazed, almost, reaching up to rub that line away with his thumb without even thinking about it. “I’m so sorry, Gus.”

“ _I’m_  not,” Gus says, his voice a low growl. “I’m not even close to being sorry because I have  _you_. Now –  _now_  do you understand how I feel about… about Zoë?”

Johnny looks down and then up again, and shivers, suddenly aware he’s got nothing on but the t-shirt, his bare ass hanging out underneath; and Gus pulls him close almost before Johnny’s stopped shivering. “Yeah,” Johnny says up close, into Gus’ hair. “Yeah, I think… a little.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Good,” Gus says into Johnny’s ear. “I can’t explain it any better than that.” The truth is he doesn’t want to: a man who can sit on his lap, and recite the Nicene Creed – that is not the kind of man, the kind of person, who could ever understand someone like Noelle, or Nelson, or maybe even Gus himself, and even trying to explain it might, Gus thinks, dim that bright innocence, that quiet but heartfelt truth.

“Let’s shower,” he says, his arms still around Johnny; and Johnny nods, sighing just a little, just enough to make Gus hold him even more tightly for a few seconds; and Johnny returns the hug wholeheartedly, not an ounce of self-consciousness to be seen, and when Gus finally releases him, Johnny strips off his t-shirt just as unconsciously, tossing it toward his bag on the other side of the room. Gus watches it fall without meaning to, and then he catches sight of the bed, where there are piles – no, stacks – of laundry, small, to be sure, but neatly folded…

Jeans, and shirts and… even a pair of boxers.

“I, uh, hit the laundromat,” Johnny says, almost shyly. “I didn’t think you’d mind, but I didn’t – you keep your stuff in drawers and I didn’t want you to think–”

“I think if you do the laundry you have a perfect right to go through the drawers,” Gus says slowly, his head whirling: what kind of man  _is_  this? Is it something in the water in Gimli? Would it have ever occurred to Noelle to ask permission, or, hell, to do something without the chores being equitably and minutely divvied up beforehand?

“Uh… I didn’t go through your drawers,” Johnny says quietly. “I didn’t  _want_  to.”

“I know, Johnny,” Gus says, catching Johnny’s arm. “And… thank you.”

“I’m not going through your things,” Johnny says, still quiet, not looking at Gus. “I told you already, I just saw the papers on top and–”

“I don’t  _care_ ,” Gus says patiently; but Johnny won’t look at him.

“ _I_ do,” he says, and his back is stiff, straighter than Gus has seen it all four – is it only four? – of these days together. “You left me here alone… why would you even do that if you thought –”

“I didn’t, and I really  _don’t_  care,” Gus says, trying to keep his temper. “And if you want to read the crap from the lawyers, you’re more than welcome. You don’t have to put my laundry away – you don’t even have to do it. And it was kind of you  _to_ do it, okay?”

“But I  _wouldn’t_ ,” Johnny says, his mouth set in an unfamiliar, thin line.

“Christ, Johnny, it’s the last thing I’d think of, and if I did, knowing you, I wouldn’t  _care_. That’s all I’m saying! Why the  _hell_ are we fighting over fucking  _clothes_  in a fucking hotel  _dresser_?”

“I’m  _not_  fighting, I’m just–”

Gus takes a deep, deep breath. “Okay, look, Johnny, I think what you’re saying is that you have expectations of privacy. That you wouldn’t go through my things without my permission and you’d expect me to stay out of, say, your bag unless I asked. Is that what you’re saying?”

“I’m saying that I  _didn’t_  go through your stuff and I  _wouldn’t_  go through your stuff.”

Johnny’s breathing fast and his jaw is set – stubbornly, Gus realizes with some surprise: he’s never seen Johnny  _stubborn_ before; and Gus takes a breath of his own and a mental step back. Somewhat thoughtfully, he pulls on one of the robes hanging over the chair before looking at Johnny again.

What the hell just  _happened_?

He takes another deep breath, trying to clear his mind. He’d thought they’d cleared up the confederation misunderstanding, before, and he still has no earthly idea what the hell the drawers have to do with  _any_ thing.

Except clearly they do, and equally clearly it’s all of a piece for Johnny.

“I’m going to put the laundry away,” he says in as normal a voice as he can muster. “Not because I don’t want you going through the drawers but because you shouldn’t have to do my laundry at all, let alone put it away. So thank you again, Johnny. Why don’t you grab a shower?”

Johnny hesitates for a long time and then drops his head in a not-quite-nod. “I know I didn’t, uh,  _have_  to. I didn’t think I did. I just wanted to, you know, help. Anyway… I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Take your time,” Gus says, equally quietly. “We’re not on a schedule.”

Johnny takes him up on it: after Gus has cleared the bed, still thinking hard, the shower’s still running. He wants to go in but he has an inkling that Johnny’s needing some time to calm down, or maybe process things: he keeps forgetting that almost all of this is new to Johnny, and Johnny seems to take so much in stride that Gus may be (probably  _is_ ) walking all over him in more ways than just the obvious.

He thinks for a few moments and then fetches his journal out of his suitcase: he’s neglected it, these past few days, which in Cornelius’ eyes was almost worse than neglecting evening prayers or brushing one’s teeth.

He’s still got a pen on the nightstand so he climbs onto the bed and settles himself on his stomach, bundling a pillow under his chest and turning the pages.

Depicting the complexities of the meeting on Monday in any coherent fashion takes all his concentration, so he’s only aware of Johnny in the room again: he missed the shower shutting off.

“All yours,” Johnny says, still quiet, his voice muffled by the towel he’s using to dry his hair; when Gus looks over his shoulder, he sees Johnny’s wearing the other robe.

“Thanks,” he says, “be there in a minute.”

“No hurry,” Johnny says. “We’re not on a schedule.” His grin is tentative; Gus is so relieved to see it, however, that he returns it tenfold.

Johnny disappears back into the bathroom, presumably to hang up the towel. When he comes out, he crosses the room to his bag and pulls out some clothes, then sits on the chair by the window to pull his socks on, following with his underwear. Gus watches him without embarrassment: the long muscles of his calves, the sleek strength of his thighs, the span of his shoulders when he finally shrugs the robe off, his back to Gus, and pulls on a t-shirt, this one a faded green. He follows with more jeans and turns around, fastening them, meeting Gus’ eyes with only a faint flush of colour in his cheeks.

“I’ll go check the, uh, scores,” he says diffidently; and Gus realizes that – again! – Johnny thinks he’s intruding.

Gus pats the bed: “I’m almost finished. I keep a journal. My grandfather was very keen on journals, and I’m trying to catch it up.”

Johnny’s “Oh” is almost soundless, and Gus is more enchanted than ever, almost forgetting his resolve to  _talk_  to Johnny; of course, a change in his constitutionally private habits will be effected much more quickly than he’d have thought with this kind of positive reinforcement at hand. When Johnny slides onto the bed next to him, rolling over on his stomach and resting his head on Gus’ shoulder, it takes all of Gus’ willpower to keep his breathing steady; he can’t even try to speak because the butterflies in his stomach, now fluttering ecstatically, might escape in a cloud of bright colourful amazement. Johnny is as generous in forgiveness as in everything else: Gus wasn’t counting on that, exactly, but he was certainly hoping for it.

He takes a deep breath and tries to calm his hands, shaking despite himself. Johnny is quiet, even relaxed, his breathing calm, his breath warm and cool by turns on Gus’ shoulder; and Gus disciplines himself to concentration, finishing the account of Monday’s meeting with more dispatch than he probably should.

He leaves the journal open, putting the pen down in the crease; he’s making a point, or hopes to, if he can; but Johnny doesn’t give him a chance here either.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, sliding over next to Gus and draping one leg over both of Gus’, talking into the back of Gus’ neck. “I – I was worried you’d think… I, uh, way overreacted.”

“No,” Gus whispers back. “I meant it, earlier, when I said you could read the stuff from the lawyers.”

“Crap,” Johnny says, and Gus can tell he’s smiling.

“Crap,” Gus says obediently, smiling too; and Johnny slides an arm under Gus’ chest and hugs him. “I honestly didn’t think anyone who didn’t have to care about it would.”

“Yeah,” Johnny says, moving Gus’ hair aside again, the way he had on the couch, earlier, pressing his lips behind Gus’ ear, a long, lingering kiss. “I just… I did care. Do care. It does – did interest me. I wasn’t pretending. We, I mean Gimli, we came into Manitoba pretty late in the game, not as late as, you know, Newfoundland and all but… anyway. Not that I know anything about it but… I don’t think, I mean, I wish you didn’t have to, uh, to do it all alone. That’s all.”

“I don’t think you know how much you know,” Gus whispers, stretching just enough to kiss Johnny’s forearm where it disappears under him.

“I wish I did,” Johnny whispers back, and hugs Gus tight again. “I wish I could.”

“And I really, honestly don’t care about the drawers,” Gus says, clearing his throat to find his voice. “If you find the sheep porn, well, it’s not going to shock you  _now_.”

Johnny’s still for a few moments, and then he snickers; and he kisses the back of Gus’ neck and says, “Sheep, no, but if you’ve got polar bear porn in there, I don’t know if I could handle that.”

And that’s enough: Gus twists under him and pulls Johnny down in a kiss that would be tender if only he weren’t laughing so hard, and Johnny too; and when they finally stop for breath, Johnny’s on Gus’ chest, wrapped in Gus’ arms and vice versa. Gus is dozing off when he hears Johnny whisper, “Thank you,” and he thinks he says it too, but he doesn’t really remember.

When he wakes again, it’s because his feet are cold: he and Johnny fell asleep on top of the duvet and all he’s got on is the robe still. He eases himself out from under Johnny, quiet as he can: he can grab a shower before Johnny wakes and then they can get out of the room for a while, get some pizza, or at least some fresh air. Gus knows he’s not used to being so cooped up and he’s willing to bet Johnny’s not either, which might have something to do with what he’s sure is Johnny’s uncharacteristic prickliness.

He’s going to press the lawyers about wrapping it all up, he decides, rinsing his hair and soaping himself up. He hums tunelessly, rinsing off and then stretching. He could use a run, and it occurs to him then that Johnny probably can’t run, what with the knees and all.

Yeah, if Gus is getting a little stir-crazy, Johnny must be more than halfway there.

Johnny comes in while Gus is drying off his back, stretching and yawning. “Man, I’m turning into a slug.”

“Call it a vacation. They’ve got an exercise room down on Two. We could hit that later if you wanted.”

“Sure,” Johnny says, looking surprised and pleased; and Gus marvels, again, at the joy Johnny takes in… well, everything. “If you want, I mean –”

“Yeah, I want,” Gus says back, tossing the towel over the shower bar; when he turns, Johnny’s in his space, his hand skating over Gus’ shoulder; and then Johnny’s leaning in to lick Gus’ neck.

“You’re still kind of… wet,” Johnny says, his voice husky, his lips vibrating against Gus’ skin. The back of Gus’ neck prickles and suddenly even his nipples are tingling.

“God, what you do to me,” he whispers, closing his eyes and giving himself up to Johnny’s tongue, Johnny’s mouth, Johnny’s hands on his skin.

“Yeah,” Johnny whispers, his tongue lapping at Gus’ breastbone, then straying to a nipple, and Gus can’t bite back his moan, can’t keep his hand out of Johnny’s hair, so soft, so short, so… different.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“So different,” Gus is whispering, “so different.”

“So gorgeous,” Johnny says in between sucking at Gus’ nipple. “So good.” So different, yeah, that too: so different, smooth skin, hard muscles, nothing but the smell of soap, soap and the rising scent of sex as Johnny sinks to his knees, sliding his hands down to brace himself on Gus’ thighs.

“God…” Gus say, one hand clenching in Johnny’s hair.

“The way you taste,” and Johnny’s licking the end of Gus’ cock, where it’s shiny and salty and just a little bitter. “The way you feel... I want you in my mouth, I want to taste you.”

“I want you to, I want you to,” Gus chants softly, and Johnny’s dimly aware that Gus is back against the wall, bracing himself with one hand.

“Teach me,” Johnny says, looking up at him. “How you do that thing with your throat… I want to make you feel like – like that.” He can’t find words to express what he wants: everything, and he wishes it could be everything, he wishes it could be the “anything” Gus keeps saying.

“Just – oh, God, just like that, Johnny –” because Johnny can’t wait any longer, not with Gus’ cock in his hand, on his lips, not with Johnny’s mouth watering to taste him, to feel him push in, wrap his tongue around Gus’ cock and lick, and suck, and  _swallow_.

He has to blink away tears: it’s like he stepped out the door into another world and here they are, in a fairy ring, Auntie Auntie would say, out of the world, out of time, and a hundred years gone by on the outside.

It wasn’t like this with Zoë, or anyone, it’s never been like this; and he sucks harder and swallows again, working the base of Gus’ cock with his hand, feeding  _himself_  Gus’ cock; and Gus was probably right all along, he’s nailed so much of it so far that Johnny’s probably been waiting for this all his fucking  _life_  and he just didn’t  _know_ : he didn’t know he could get fucked, up the ass, and  _like_  it; he didn’t know – he’s never been  _invited_  into someone’s life, someone’s bed, someone’s  _trust_  like this, not even –

No, he’s  _not_  going there, not again, not when he’s here, now, with Gus, and here-and-now it really doesn’t matter who he is, or what, because it’s just the two of them and he doesn’t have anything to prove with Gus, probably never did, because Gus – well, for starters, Gus took it up the ass too.

So he concentrates on Gus’ cock, the taste and feel of Gus’ heavy weight in his mouth, the flex of Gus’ thigh under his hand, the sound of Gus’ moans, breathy and soft, even the crunch of hair against the heel of his hand; and he flattens his palm on the next stroke so just his thumb and forefinger are wrapped around the base of Gus’ cock, pressing down on Gus’ lower belly with the rest of his fingers. That makes Gus gasp, almost choke, so Johnny does it again.

He loves the way Gus’ cock swells in his mouth, how the end is thicker than the base, how Gus jerks when Johnny’s tongue licks the soft part underneath the head. He wonders if he knows this because he has a cock or if he knows this because Gus is moaning his name and rocking into Johnny’s mouth. He’s just as gentle but his hips are moving faster now and Johnny’s sucking harder, slurping in air along with cock, a  _mouthful_  of cock. And a mouthful of balls: he slides off and down, licking and sucking, pushing Gus’ thighs apart, licking back behind, stretching his neck and turning his head, finally, and barely, able to reach the soft crinkled skin, licking where he can reach; and somewhere above him Gus is scrabbling against the wall, words like “Jesus – God – _fuck_!” spilling from his lips.

Johnny licks Gus’ balls again, sliding a finger down even as he slides his mouth up, pressing his fingertip up and in and closing his mouth on Gus’ cock again. And they’ve found a rhythm, God, yes… and Gus is losing the rhythm, his hands clenched in Johnny’s hair and his hips jerking and his cock spurting into Johnny’s mouth. And Johnny swallows: bitter and salt and  _life_ , like the ocean, and Gus’ voice echoing off the tiles in the bathroom like waves crashing –

And, oh,  _shit_ , he’s crashing down too, wave after wave, and the fucking jeans were  _clean_.

And Gus is breathless and laughing, sliding down to join Johnny on the floor, kissing him, holding him: “We could send the laundry out, you know.”

“I didn’t  _know_ ,” Johnny says, breathless himself, his eyelids suddenly too heavy to lift. “I… didn’t think I was…”

“Holy Christ, Johnny,” Gus breathes, and he feels Gus’ breath on his face just before Gus’ lips touch his; and Gus is whispering into his mouth: “You are fucking kidding me. That’s so fucking  _hot_ , do you know how  _hot_  that is? I’d be coming again if I could.”

Johnny tries to grin, can’t – Gus’ mouth is on his – tries to nod, can’t do that either, and finally just gives up and kisses Gus back. Trust Gus to not make him feel like a stupid teenager and he tries to push the memory away, making out with Zoë in the front seat of the car, coming just like  _that_  when she suggested the back seat. She’d laughed, which wasn’t so bad, but she’d been a little… irritated too and that… well, he’d figured he wouldn’t see her again, not after that, even though he got her off with his fingers.

“Johnny,” Gus is saying, and he opens his eyes and tries to focus. “Hang on a sec, okay? I’ll be right back.”

“Yeah,” he says, or thinks he says, even though he wants to keep looking at Gus, at the reality in front of him and not think about the memories crowding in.

“On second thought…” Gus says, and he feels a warm, strong grip on his wrist. He grips back, instinctively, and Gus is hauling him to his feet, manhandling him back to the bedroom and on the bed. He grins, and even laughs when he feels Gus’ fingers at his waist.

“I’m going to get into your bag, Johnny,” he hears Gus saying, and he laughs again and tells Gus he thinks he’s already been there, done that. Gus’ rich chuckle is his reward; when it turns into an outright laugh, he musters the strength to open his eyes and look.

Gus is holding up his ties.

“You never know,” Johnny says sheepishly, closing his eyes again. “Tournaments. Dinners. Coaching…”

“You’re such a good man,” and Gus’ voice is a lot closer than it was just a few seconds ago; he senses Gus’ lips before he feels them, and this kiss is even better than all the other ones: it’s just a kiss, a long, deep, luxurious kiss, a hug in between, another kiss just like the first one.

“Falling asleep?” Gus’ voice is up in the air again, and Johnny drags his eyes open once more.

“No, don’t think so.”

“All right, scoot up,” Gus says, pulling Johnny’s jeans down, then his briefs, swabbing Johnny’s cock off; and Johnny wriggles up onto the bed obligingly, trying to feel embarrassed that Gus is dressing him but just not really able to get past the part where he sucked Gus off and came in his jeans.

“Up again,” Gus is saying, and he feels the elastic of clean underwear skating up his legs. “Johnny, if you keep smiling at me like that we’re never going to get out of here tonight.”

“Okay,” Johnny says, lifting his ass and helping Gus out. “’m good.” He opens his eyes in time to see Gus throw his head back and laugh, and repeat, for what Johnny’s sure is the fifth or sixth time, at least, that he’s never met anyone like Johnny.

Johnny helps with the jeans too and tries not to think about the now-guaranteed trip back to the laundromat tomorrow. At least he knows about the bookstore now: maybe he’ll find something else there too. And none of it really matters: he’d come in all his jeans, and wear them, too, just to feel Gus’ hands on his legs like this, to hear that note in Gus’ voice when he settles next to Johnny on the bed, to feel Gus’ hand, warm, right over his heart, as Gus leans in to kiss Johnny’s cheek, then a corner of his mouth, then a gentle kiss on Johnny’s mouth.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Johnny may think he’s not falling asleep but Gus knows better: when he kisses Johnny, on the mouth this time, Johnny murmurs something in Icelandic.

With a few minutes to reflect, Gus is certain the ecstasy he feels in knowing some parts of Johnny this well already bodes well for the future, a future that’s still shadowy, and that may or may not have more whistle than wind at the moment, but it’s a welcome joy, a joy that’s filling more than just his heart but warming his soul too.

“I’m going to check my messages,” he whispers, and Johnny nods, eyes still closed, lips moving as if he’s saying something; but no words emerge. Gus was, and is still, damned annoyed with Noelle but that last call might in fact have been the lawyers: they’re due for another session tomorrow or Thursday morning, and if it’s tomorrow, Gus can get out of Ottawa that much sooner.

However, Gus is wrong, or was right earlier: there are no messages waiting, just dial tones. He goes back to the door of the bedroom and watches Johnny on the bed for a few moments, until Johnny opens his eyes and looks straight at Gus, a half smile immediately curving his lips.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Ready?”

“When you are,” Gus says, just as softly: he could stand here a few more minutes. Or hours.

“Was it her?”

“Yeah.” Gus wrinkles his nose and Johnny grins. “The lawyers were talking about meeting tomorrow or Thursday, and I thought there was a chance it was them after all. I’m hoping for tomorrow so we can blow this popsicle stand sooner and head up to Montréal.”

Johnny laughs, as Gus intended, and then rolls up on an elbow and pushes himself up. “I’m not in a hurry, so don’t–”

“I’m fed up,” Gus says. “I’d much rather be on my way to Montréal with you or on my way home. Do you want to go back to the same place your team went for pizza? Was the pizza decent?”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Johnny says, looking surprised. “If I can – I think I remember–”

“I know how to get there,” Gus says. “I’ve got a good bump for direction.”

And he does: they opt to walk, in a comfortable silence for the most part.

The silence falls away over pizza and beer: Johnny asks more questions about Solomon Gundy, less hesitant now, although Gus notes he still skirts the issue of confederation; but Gus is pleased (overjoyed!) that Johnny’s feeling comfortable enough to ask at all. Over the second pitcher of beer, Johnny asks, a little shyly, about Zeda, and Bunsy; and by the time Gus is finished explaining them – and, of course, Cornelius, without whom no story about Bunsy is ever complete – he’s feeling a little homesick and a lot nostalgic.

But Johnny seems to understand that too, unconsciously, perhaps: he clowns, on the way back to the hotel, and makes such a muddle of pronouncing the French name of a bar down the street from the hotel that Gus laughs until his stomach hurts; and it seems perfectly natural to take a seat outside and have a couple more beers.

He’s not drunk: it would take more than this, since his liver is, he’s sure, nicely pickled by now, and he remembers Cornelius telling him that a pickled liver was the key to a long life, Zeda adding that Cornelius would certainly know. He’s about to share the joke with Johnny, who’s probably just as tipsy as Gus, when a familiar and most unwelcome voice attacks – assails – he can’t think of the word – his ears.

“Auguste! Where have you been?”

He just barely manages to bite back his instinctive reaction, that Noelle’s taken to stalking; and he hastily gathers his wits and bites his tongue hard, a reminder, a warning to himself to keep his temper and to keep her away from Johnny.

“Noelle.” Longstanding practice has him on his feet; startled, he sees Johnny getting to his feet in the periphery of his vision; and in between the warm swell of pride and, again, happiness, he wonders what the  _hell_  Zoë’s problem was.

Well. Maybe the mechanic had even  _better_  manners.

Yeah, he’s a little more to the wind than he thought, and he bites his tongue again as Noelle approaches. She’s wearing an dark green suit that certainly looks expensive, and he wonders, somewhat less than idly this time, how the hell she’s managed to land on her feet to this extent. Money wasn’t a problem on the island, but it’s never been a problem for Gus anyway, and Noelle was, she said afterward, going through her “socialisme” phase, so the lack of Paris knockoffs didn’t bother her at the time.

“Dinner,” he says, clearing his throat and his mind. “Noelle, this is my friend Johnny; Johnny, Noelle Desnoyers.”

“ _Enchanté_ ,” Noelle says, smiling brilliantly at Johnny, who blinks a couple of times. “How wonderful that you are able to spend some time with Gus here.”

“Yeah,” Johnny says, and Gus is grateful that the shadows are hiding what he’s sure is Johnny’s blush.

“Passing through?” Gus asks as pleasantly as he can, making no move toward a chair, but she outfaces him.

“ _Oui_ , but of course I have time for just one drink.” She smiles at Johnny again; Johnny blinks again, then pulls out a chair for her with a jerky movement; and he won’t catch Gus’ eye.

The waiter, suddenly hovering, provides a distraction for Noelle and Gus casts about for a way to keep Noelle off Johnny and on himself as Noelle orders something in French that Gus can’t quite make out.

“How do you think it’s going?” he asks, finally deciding that confederation is the safest tack.

“Quite well,” Noelle says enthusiastically, leaning in to touch Gus’ arm. She’s not being proprietary: she has no reason; so she must be trying to flirt.

Gus is perplexed: she can’t possibly think–

“The lawyers are very pleased. Are we meeting tomorrow as well?”

“I haven’t heard yet,” Gus says, almost automatically, moving his arm out of her reach. “There may be a message at the hotel.”

“Probably not in the morning,” Noelle says decisively.

Really, she’s wasted in Ottavian politics. She’d have been much more suited to the court of Louis XIV, Gus thinks. Or, at least, happier.

Noelle’s drink arrives, providing another distraction. Gus doesn’t try to catch Johnny’s eye now, because he knows Noelle’s watching him. “We’ll see, I suppose.” Johnny, who’d ordered another beer, sinks back in his chair with his glass and Noelle glances at him.

“And you, you are enjoying Ottawa, Johnny?”

“Yeah,” Johnny says, almost inaudibly. “A lot. I’ve never been here before.”

“You are sight-seeing, then, while I take Gus away to these boring meetings,” she says, and her laugh sounds forced.

“Pretty much,” Johnny says, looking into his glass.

“And we shouldn’t bore my guest with any talk of these things,” Gus says firmly. “What should Johnny be sure not to miss while he’s here, Noelle?”

Her eyes flicker at him, as if she’s surprised, but Gus has no idea why: it’s not as if she was ever able to accuse him of patience. But she gives in, again, with better grace than he’s been used to from her, and begins to tell them both of sights that should not be missed.

It takes Gus probably longer than it should to realize that she’s making a conscious effort to flirt with Johnny, and his bafflement is complete: she’s trying to make Gus jealous and, again, he can’t really think what she hopes to gain from any of it. There’s never been a question that they were over, nor that she’d ever set foot on that “Godforsaken” island again; and Gus really wasn’t joking when he told Johnny earlier that several islanders would be more than happy to hang her, especially (of course) the always-bloodthirsty Maida Swinimer, who’s convinced to this day that Gus’ heart was broken and that Noelle was the curse (and the witch) that Bunsy’d always maintained.

Johnny’s drawn back in his chair as far as he can, his chin tucked into the collar of his jacket, as if he’s trying to hide; and Gus can’t blame him, although he can be (and is) thankful that Noelle’s using charm instead of vitriol in this particular instance, and that Noelle hasn’t, and probably won’t, suss out the true situation. Not – and he’ll have to make that clear to Johnny – that he’s at all ashamed of it, or them, but because he knows that Noelle will see it as a weakness and, like a shark with blood in the water, will be unable to resist tearing into one or both of them, to their faces and behind their backs.

Gus tries to distract her, deflect her attentions to Johnny; if she thinks it’s because her ploy is succeeding, he doesn’t actually care. He watches her as carefully as he can, still trying to puzzle out what she  _wants_  from all this and trying not to catch Johnny’s eyes, luminous in the shadows and filled with an emotion Gus can’t quite discern.

He finishes his beer with rather more celerity than he normally would and when the waiter descends once again, Gus settles the tab, pretending not to notice Noelle’s  _moue_  of disappointment. “I’m sorry,” he says insincerely, “but it’s late and Johnny’s had a busy day.”

“Oh, I am sure Johnny won’t mind if we talk some business now, you and I,” Noelle says winningly, smiling at Johnny. “Would you like to go back to your room and–”

“Noelle, he’s my guest,” Gus says quietly, letting her hear all the steel he can put into his voice, breaking in before Johnny has a chance to assent to her ridiculous (not to mention rude) suggestion.

“Indeed,” she says, making a creditable attempt at sounding gracious. “My apologies, and do please join us for dinner Thursday, Johnny; I would so like to get to know you better.”

“I’m sorry,” Johnny says, getting to his feet as Noelle does, “but I probably won’t still be here then. Thanks anyway.”

Gus does  _not_  look at Johnny: it would give away too much to Noelle; but he wonders if Johnny’s just quick on his feet or royally pissed. If it were Noelle, he’d know the answer; hell, if it were himself, he’d know the answer; but Johnny’s opaque again and Gus can’t  _see_  him right now.

“That is too bad,” Noelle is saying, as insincerely as Gus earlier, but, again, Gus doesn’t care; and he’s pretty sure that only he notices that Johnny pauses a moment too long to take Noelle’s proffered hand.

She walks with them to the hotel entrance, Johnny trailing behind; every time Gus catches sight of him, Johnny’s looking at the buildings or the street or the shops. He detaches Noelle at the entrance firmly as Johnny ducks into the hotel behind them, and he sidesteps her attempt to kiss him on the mouth by turning his head so she only gets a cheek, and he agrees, just as insincerely as she did, to call her later or tomorrow.

Gus’ mind is in a whirl as he heads to the lifts, fortunately out of sight of the main entrance: he thinks about calling Zeda for more than half a second before realizing that it’s far too late.

Johnny’s waiting at the lifts, his face still drawn and pale. Now that Gus can see his eyes, he doesn’t see what he’d expected; instead he sees apprehension, maybe even fear. “God, I’m sorry,” Gus says, moving closer to Johnny without even thinking, his hand going up to Johnny’s face; and Johnny takes a step back, looking around quickly.

“She might have forgotten something,” he says quietly, and it’s clear that with his emphasis on “forgotten” Johnny’s well aware that Gus is keeping the secret from Noelle more than anything, or anyone, else.

So Johnny knows that Gus doesn’t trust Noelle, and he knows – knew? – that almost before Gus did. Gus lets himself puzzle _that_  out while they wait for the lift, how Johnny picks up on so very many things about Gus. If he does that against other teams, he’s probably a formidable coach, come to that.

Once in the lift, Johnny breathes a sigh of relief when the doors close, and his hand finds Gus’ arm almost as if Johnny’s not even aware of it.

“We can stop on the second floor for a more relaxing drink,” Gus says quietly. “Check out the exercise room…”

“Sure,” Johnny says, and Gus, again, can’t tell if he actually means it or not.

But he gives Johnny the benefit of the doubt he asked Johnny to give him and punches the button; and soon he and Johnny are ensconced in the far corner of a pub-like, almost-cosy hotel bar, away from prying eyes and the entrance; and Gus points out as off-handedly as possible that the second floor is more or less guests only, at which point Johnny seems to actually relax.

“You’re not leaving before Thursday,” Gus says then, more to reassure himself than to question Johnny.

“Uh, no,” Johnny says, his eyes dropping. “Just…”

The waitress interrupts, not at all opportunely, and Gus orders a single malt. Johnny orders vodka, a brand Gus isn’t familiar with, also straight up; and Gus reflects that, really, it’s a kind of ethnocentricism to think that Scotch is not as hard as, say, vodka, especially if Johnny was raised on the stuff. And if Icelanders, even Canadian ones, are anything like the Scandinavians Gus has known through the years, there’s probably not even a shadow of a doubt about  _that_.

Gus agrees to run a tab and gives the waitress his room number; Johnny raises an eyebrow but says nothing. After she leaves, Gus slides closer and rubs Johnny’s leg.

“She’s up to something,” he says.

“Is that it?” Johnny responds, almost mechanically, and Gus’ alarms are suddenly going off: Johnny’s gone again.

The waitress, a no-nonsense blonde, returns with their drinks. Gus is pleased to see that Johnny’s vodka’s in an iced glass; and he’s not quite surprised that Johnny downs it quickly. The waitress, on her way back from another table, asks if he’d like another, and Johnny smiles tiredly and asks her to make it a double.

“We’re getting drunk tonight?” Gus says. “I don’t know if I can keep up with an Icelander, Johnny.”

“You’re a sailor, aren’t you?” Johnny says, again almost mechanically. “Don’t hand me that.”

The waitress is back: clearly she’s decided their table is going to be profitable; and she asks if Johnny wants a beer chaser. Johnny shakes his head and says that another double’ll do and she cracks an actual smile and says she’ll keep her eye on his glass.

And somehow Gus is even enjoying the effect that Johnny has on other people, as if they can sense his goodness, or his sweetness, or whatever one would call it, and can’t help responding to it.

After his third drink Johnny finally looks at Gus and says, almost inaudibly, “I didn’t expect her to be like that.”

“Pushy? Sneaky?” Gus guesses, nodding at the waitress when she indicates his glass too.

“Yeah,” Johnny says, still quietly. “Her… uh, her hair and…”

“She’s from Rivière-du-Loup,” Gus says. “Small town girl, honest.”

Johnny downs the next drink almost as quickly as the first one; his only other response is to nod jerkily.

“Vodka kicking in yet?” Gus asks after a while, as sympathetically as he dares.

“Starting to,” Johnny whispers, and his face is drawn and tired. “Too bad we ate first.” He’s trying to smile and it almost makes Gus wince. He reaches out and touches Johnny’s mouth with two fingers.

“It’ll be all right,” he says, even though he’s not exactly sure what “it” is.

“I know,” Johnny says, pressing his lips against Gus’ fingers for just a moment. “I… will you be all right?”

“Well… yes,” Gus says, frowning slightly, trying to parse Johnny’s meaning. “She’s not the primary negotiator. She’s almost a neutral party, except, of course, that she actually works for the Canadian government. But she found the lawyers, and they’re decent, for liars. She was a… she was a friend of Dexter’s, Johnny.”

“Okay,” Johnny says, “but she’s… getting something out of it, right? Or is she doing it for him, for Dexter?”

“I think she’s doing it for power and influence here in Ottawa,” Gus says slowly. “I think she’s probably doing it for Dexter, too, in a way.”

“But if you… well, if you don’t know what Dexter wants, how does she know?” Johnny says, smiling sideways as the waitress deposits another glass.

“I…” Gus sits back and looks at Johnny, then blinks. “She knew Dexter. I mean, she knew him for a while. They were friends.”

“But you… you, uh, lived together, with her, I mean, and you don’t know what Dexter wants. Wanted.”

“We didn’t – we didn’t talk about Dexter much. We didn’t talk much, really,” Gus says slowly. “We debated a lot, of course, but…”

“Weird,” Johnny says, staring into his glass; and then he drains it again, and looks up at Gus and smiles.

“You’re not making sense,” Gus says gently, smiling back.

“I never do,” Johnny says, sounding somewhat more cheerful. “I think I’d better stop now.”

“Fair enough,” Gus says, shaking his head at the waitress, who’d caught his eye from beside the bar. She nods and is at the table a few moments later with the tab. He adds a very generous tip: she’s one of the most tactfully efficient servers he’s ever encountered.

Back at the room, Johnny downs another bottle of water almost without stopping along with three ibuprofen, and when Gus climbs into bed with him, Johnny immediately moves up against him, sighs, and falls asleep, probably within thirty seconds. Gus, not quite as buzzed as he’s sure Johnny is, nevertheless enjoys the unaccustomed feeling of relaxation, turns out the light, and follows Johnny into sleep, if not as quickly at least as peacefully.


	4. mardi: nuit

viii. mardi: nuit

It starts as a nightmare, the usual kind: Johnny running after Zoë through the snow and not able to move quickly enough; but this time he catches up with her, but when she turns, it’s not Zoë at all, but Noelle, heavily pregnant. There’s a man hailing them from the bottom of the hill. Johnny thinks it’s Gus and he wants to leave, and can’t, but it’s Louis, looking cheerful and friendly, as if nothing had ever happened. And of course it hasn’t, since Noelle is standing right there with them in the snow, no longer pregnant and Zoë nowhere to be seen. Louis opens the bag he’s carrying, a grocery bag, and pulls out a kitten, newborn, tiny and wet, the cord still attached. It’s not moving, but while Johnny’s staring at it in horror, wanting to take it and wrap it in something and get it out of the cold, Louis and Noelle are waiting proudly for his reaction. And then it opens its mouth and cries, a tiny sound.

He wakes, his heart pounding, in a cold sweat; but Gus is still sleeping, thank God. Johnny disentangles himself and goes to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face, then gets a bottle of water and sits down on the end of the couch. He’s still shaking but can’t remember, exactly, what the dream was about: he never can. Zoë, and Louis; and maybe Noelle, he thinks; and… a baby or a kitten or something...

He shivers: it’s the dead of night and cool, and he only has on shorts and a t-shirt; but he doesn’t want to go look for clothes and risk waking Gus, so he wraps his arms around himself, his legs under him, and leans against the back of the couch, staring at nothing with unseeing eyes.

He drifts off again, alone on the snowy hill with the wind picking up, and all that’s left of the earlier dream is a bloodstain. He can’t stop staring at it until he looks up and realizes he’s in a whiteout, and he can’t remember which way he came or where he’s going. He looks for his footprints but they’re filled already, and the only thing he can see is the blood; when he reaches down to touch it, it’s warm and sticky. And he’s freezing, and it’s warm, so he sinks down into it, into the warmth, and he hates himself for it, the tears freezing on his cheeks, but it’s the only thing he can think to do. And he sinks down further and wonders if he’s found a troll’s den, buried in the earth. There’s thudding in his ears – the footsteps of trolls? vættar? – but he’s warm now and the blood’s gone.

“Johnny,” and he doesn’t know how the trolls know his name; maybe it’s just huldufólk after all. “Johnny.”

Huldufólk don’t have fire, they make their own heat, and that’s what he feels, comfortable and warm all over. “Johnny.”

“Takk, takk kærlega,” he says, because you have to be polite to magical creatures.

“Johnny, come on,” and he’s dizzy, and it’s getting darker: he’s being led down a tunnel.

Still no fire, just a darker darkness, and a warm, soft bed: huldufólk, then, and Johnny struggles to explain, trying to remember the right words, certain that huldufólk don’t speak English, even the ones in Canada. “Ég get ekki að því gert, mér er kalt. Hún er daudur… fyrirgefdu.”

“It’s all right,” and the voice in his ear is as rich and warm as the bed. “Go to sleep.”

Johnny smiles: maybe the Canadian ones do speak English after all. “I was just cold,” he whispers. “The snow, and the blood, and I thought…”

“Go to sleep,” the voice says again, and Johnny’s probably exhausted its patience: he’s been rescued by the huldufólk or he’s dying in the snowstorm, and either way there’s nothing he can really do but sleep. “You’re with me now, you’re safe.”

“Ég skal vera hjárður, takk kærlega,” Johnny whispers, and he feels arms around him, warm and solid, almost human. “Sofðu vel.”

“ _Du auch_ ,” the voice whispers. “ _Lieb’ dich_.”

The next time Johnny wakes, it’s dark and warm and there are arms around him, and he can’t remember for a second if it’s Gus or if he’s under a mountain with the huldufólk. He pushes back and hears Gus mumble something. So the snowstorm was a dream, and he’s awake now; and he pulls one of Gus’ hands up to his mouth, kissing his knuckles one by one, rubbing his thumb across the back of Gus’ hand at the same time.

Gus mumbles something else and pulls him closer, and then Johnny feels warm lips, a warm tongue on his neck: Gus is kissing his neck like it’s his mouth and Johnny feels it all the way down his body to right between his legs.

But Gus doesn’t stop: his tongue explores the back of Johnny’s neck while he slides his hands up under the t-shirt, rubbing across Johnny’s chest, here and there brushing a nipple. Johnny can feel Gus’ cock too, a rigid length pressing against his ass, Gus moving in an easy rhythm that Johnny’s hips are echoing. He feels relaxed and strung tight all at once, and he gives up, gives himself over to Gus’ hands and mouth, moaning softly when Gus’ fingers find a nipple, floating in a dark, warm, timeless haven.

Gus moves his mouth, finally, and achingly slow, around to the side of Johnny’s neck, and Johnny moves too so he’s partly on his stomach, bracing one knee against the bed so he can catch and return Gus’ rhythm. Gus whispers his name, his hands sliding down to Johnny’s hips and holding him there while he thrusts hard, once, twice, and then settles back into the same gentle rhythm as before, his tongue wet and warm on Johnny’s shoulder, then Johnny’s neck again, his hands skating up Johnny’s belly to rub across Johnny’s chest.

He could stay like this forever, Johnny thinks dreamily, pushing back and up, back and up. Too many clothes but it still feels good, warm and dark and safe. He almost falls asleep again, but not really, half-floating, half-dreaming, when Gus nips the bone at the top of his shoulder. He giggles: he can’t help it; and when he feels Gus’ fingers at his waistband he wriggles, too, helping Gus push the shorts down, moaning again when he feels Gus’ cock, still covered, pushing against his naked ass, pushing up into his crack.

“Ah, Johnny,” Gus whispers, licking Johnny’s ear, biting it, sucking it in; and Johnny moans because there’s nothing to say, nothing that needs to be said, not really, nothing but another moan, ending with a ‘yeah.’

“Yeah,” Gus echoes, pushing Johnny down into the bed for a few seconds; then the weight’s gone, and the warmth, and Johnny turns his head to protest the loss.

“’s it,” Gus whispers against his cheek, his weight and his heat back, hot and hard and thick between Johnny’s legs. Slick, too; and Johnny’s heart is suddenly pounding as Gus’ cock rides his ass, the ridge teasing him, rubbing back and forth across his hole; and Johnny writhes under Gus, trying to spread his legs wider but they’re caught in his shorts.

“Shhh,” Gus says, sliding an arm beneath Johnny again. “Shhh, I got you…”

“Please,” Johnny whispers back. “God, please…”

But Gus is slowing, rocking back and forth, slow and deliberate, it has to be deliberate because the head of his cock is slipping back and forth, up and down, right  _there_ , teasing but not going  _in_ ; and he’s pressing Johnny down to the mattress so Johnny can’t push up enough to get him in.

“ _Please_ ,” Johnny whispers again.

“Shhh,” Gus says, leaning over so their lips meet, and the hand beneath Johnny  _finally_  finds Johnny’s cock, and Johnny moans his satisfaction into Gus’ mouth.

“That’s it,” Gus says, rocking harder now, and Johnny rocks too, taking advantage of Gus’ shift to push his hips higher, harder, faster.

He feels blunt pressure just  _there_  and he moans again, moans and freezes, pushing back against Gus just the tiniest bit; and Gus moans too, when the head starts to slip in. “God, Johnny –”

“Yeah,” Johnny whispers, catching Gus’ hand under him, holding it there on Johnny’s cock, holding Gus there so he can push back more. “ _So_  good…”

“God, yes,” Gus breathes, “but–”

“Please,” Johnny says again, and he doesn’t care if he’s begging. “Please…”

“Take it easy,” Gus is saying, and Johnny feels a thrill deep inside him: Gus is gripping Johnny’s cock like he can’t let go, like he’s on the far edge of control and losing, and Johnny – Johnny’s doing this to him, just Johnny, just here, just like this. He smiles to himself and starts to move his hips again, slow, regular, feeling the head slipping in and out, in and out. Gus lets out his breath in a gust across the back of Johnny’s neck and begins to pull on Johnny’s cock. Johnny can still feel him fighting for control and he pushes back a little more, a little harder, so when Gus moves the next time the head of his cock doesn’t slip out all the way.

And he feels it when Gus gives up, when Gus starts to come: Gus shudders and rocks up into Johnny, his cock shuddering too, throbbing and pushing up, up and in; two more thrusts, Gus’ teeth in his shoulder again, and Johnny’s coming too, inside and out, his cock jerking in Gus’ hand, Gus’ cock still jerking inside him.

He drifts back to sleep with Gus still on top of him, still inside him, Gus’ lips behind his ear, murmuring his name and nuzzling him there, and it’s  _all_  all right, it’s  _all_  good.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Gus can’t get his breath or his brains back to do more than whisper ridiculous things into Johnny’s ear and hold him close and tight. Part of his brain can’t believe Johnny took him  _again_ ; another part just wants to fall asleep like this, stay like this for _ever_ ; and the one sensible part, scolding him for letting go his control, is too distant for him to really listen to, at least right now.

He cups the hand Johnny came in, sliding it out from under them and wiping it on the part of his boxers he can reach. Johnny murmurs and presses back against him; Gus wraps both arms around him, putting his own head down on the pillow behind Johnny’s. He’ll get up in a minute, clean them up, but this… this is too much, too good, too precious to leave.

He closes his eyes, trying to blank out the sight of Johnny, shivering on the couch in the dark, alone. Snow, and blood, and it’s not too hard to guess what Johnny was dreaming; but it is hard to understand why he chose to freeze instead of coming back to bed. Afraid of waking him, Gus supposes: Johnny’s too self-effacing, or too polite, for his own good.

Maybe he ought to just handcuff Johnny to him at night.

He’s sure that he falls asleep grinning.

When he wakes again, the room is lighter, grey around the edges of the curtains: dawn’s not far off.

Neither is Johnny, still molded against him, so relaxed and pliant that, Gus realizes with a jolt, he’s still  _inside_  Johnny. Almost as soon as the realization hits him, so does his erection: he can feel his penis stiffening with every heartbeat and it’s the hottest,  _weirdest_  thing he’s ever  _felt_ , his cock stretching Johnny’s warmth and softness, Johnny shifting just enough that Gus can’t help moving, staying with him but trying not to move at all even though his heart is thudding in his chest, trying to find his tongue, trying to find words to wake Johnny but not able to actually  _think_.

Johnny’s hips are moving too, but not hard enough or fast enough; and then Johnny stretches, stretches and sighs, and the sigh turns into a moan as he presses back against Gus again.

“Johnny,” Gus whispers, his brain cooperating that much. “Oh, God…”

“Mmmhmmm,” and it’s another not-quite-sigh as Johnny begins to move against and with Gus.

“Johnny,” Gus says against his neck, his cock starting to slide, too slowly, in and out, “if you wake up, I won’t actually be molesting you.”

“Mmm,” Johnny says, wrapping his arms around one of Gus’ and, yes, snuggling back. “Save the sheep…”

“Save a sheep, fuck a hockey player,” Gus whispers, and Johnny doesn’t disappoint him: he snorts, then laughs, then groans when Gus pushes him down into the mattress again, wrestling Johnny’s shorts off with one foot so they have room to move: Johnny’s going to be sore and Gus can’t help it, can’t  _stop_ , but he can make sure this, at least, is as good as it can be.

He’s gratified (and his conscience eased) when he reaches under Johnny and finds him already hard; and Johnny moans again, moving faster under him now. Gus stretches up to grab a pillow, kissing Johnny’s sweet, sweet mouth on the way there and back: “Hang on a sec,” he whispers, and Johnny responds with another moan, another undulation of his hips that nearly sends Gus over the edge then and there.

“I  _used_  to have self-control,” Gus says, licking his way up Johnny’s neck to his ear. “You’re going to be such a bad influence on those sheep.”

“Thought they were already spoiled,” Johnny murmurs, a grin pulling up the side of his face Gus can see. “’s not my fault…”

Gus has to laugh, even though he’s not quite steady, and when he tries to pull them both to their knees he almost overbalances. “C’mon,” he says between Johnny’s snickers, “work with me here.”

“Thought I was,” and Johnny’s wriggle almost undoes Gus again.

“God…” and he’s burying his face between Johnny’s shoulder blades, breathing deep. “Jesus God, Johnny…”

“Just fuck me,” Johnny whispers, the laughter gone from his voice. “Just  _fuck_  me, Gus…”

“If you keep saying ‘fuck’ like that we’re not even going to get there,” Gus says hoarsely, moving his mouth up to Johnny’s neck, holding the skin between his teeth for a long moment. Johnny shudders under him, gasping, and Gus lets go, licking where his teeth left marks.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop,” Johnny gasps, reaching a hand up, feeling for Gus’ shoulder, arm, and Gus can feel Johnny’s back curling so he can push against Gus. He rides the motion with Johnny, curling his own back too and pulling Johnny up with him, one hand splayed across Johnny’s chest, the other at Johnny’s groin, holding them together.

 _Jesus_ , this is  _it_ , Johnny kneeling between Gus’ thighs, his ass cradled between Gus’ legs, fitting against him like they were made for each other, like Johnny was made for this, and he can’t even  _move_  for a long, long second, gasping Johnny’s name into his shoulder, feeling for and finding Johnny’s cock with one hand, hugging Johnny against him with the other.

“Oh, God, oh God,” Johnny’s saying, his head back on Gus’ shoulder, and when Gus raises his own head he sees Johnny’s eyes shut tight, his mouth open, jaw working; and then he feels Johnny ripple around him and he thrusts without even meaning to. Johnny jerks in his arms and shudders again, turning his face toward Gus and panting his name. “Oh  _God_ …”

“Johnny…” Gus whispers and moves again, slower this time, slow and deliberate, and Johnny jerks and shudders every single time Gus moves. “I can’t – God, Johnny – I can’t – God,  _every_ thing…”

One of Johnny’s hands comes up to the back of Gus’ neck, pulling them together; and Johnny’s kissing him, just as hard and just as slow as Gus is fucking Johnny; and then he shudders again and Gus feels Johnny’s whole body tighten. He thrusts faster, shorter strokes, not even moving his hand on Johnny’s cock, just  _holding_  him, and Johnny moans into his mouth, then swallows hard, drawn taut as a bow string. Then he’s shuddering again, groaning and panting and coming all over Gus’ hand and the bed, his ass milking Gus’ cock, and Gus follows him a few seconds later, lets Johnny pull him over too, spending himself deep inside Johnny, sheer rapture overtaking him.

“God,” Johnny says in a choked whisper, and he’s  _still_  coming, another jerk, another spasm, his cock wet and slick in Gus’ hand. “I…  _can’t_ …”

Gus eases them both back to the bed, pulling Johnny partly on top of him, kissing him breathlessly, gently, whispering absolutely nonsensical things; and Johnny kisses him back, his body once again completely relaxed, quiescent, even, murmuring things back to Gus that Gus doesn’t try to understand. “God, I love this,” Gus whispers into his mouth. “I never…”

“I never  _either_ ,” Johnny whispers earnestly, moving his hand to cup Gus’ jaw. “I am  _so_  gay…”

Gus snorts and hugs Johnny tight against him. “You’re going to be so  _sore_. I wasn’t intending–”

“I don’t care,” Johnny whispers, raising his head to look at Gus. “I don’t. I can’t believe how… how  _incredible_  this feels, how – God, how  _good_  you are, I can’t believe I never  _knew_  this.”

“It’s because you’re so goddamned  _hot_ ,” Gus says hoarsely, rolling them over and pinning Johnny under him, making Johnny look at him. “Don’t you get that?” He holds Johnny’s gaze for a few more seconds to make his point, then leans in to kiss him again, and Johnny kisses him back with abandon, both hands in Gus’ hair, holding him close, stroking his fingers through Gus’ hair when Gus finally releases him.

“So it’d be like this with anyone, is that what you’re saying?” he says, and Gus can see the groove deepening at the side of his mouth.

“I’m saying it’s all me, except the parts that are you,” Gus growls, thrusting up against him. “You want references?”

“I don’t speak sheep,” Johnny says with a gurgle. “Can they write?” and then he’s laughing so hard he can’t stop and Gus starts laughing too. They end up entangled in one another’s arms, Johnny still giggling from time to time, making Gus laugh too.

“Never thought of doing it like that,” Johnny says after a while, tucking his head into the space between Gus’ neck and shoulder; and it’s really absurd that even that makes Gus’ heart swell. “It felt so… intense… I thought I wouldn’t even come, because it just felt so good there wasn’t anything else.”

“Amazing,” Gus says quietly, rubbing his thumb through Johnny’s hair. “You really are. If it wasn’t too hard on your knees, you could return the favour some time.”

Johnny’s fingers still; and then he says, even more quietly, “Okay. Yeah. It… uh, it wasn’t.”

“Good,” Gus says, turning his head enough to kiss Johnny’s forehead. “On both counts. What was up last night? I found you on the couch. You were freezing.” Gus has always been a proponent of the direct approach and he came to the conclusion about a day and a half ago that there’s no other way  _to_  approach Johnny. “Nightmare?”

“Uh, yeah. Sorry, I guess I just fell asleep again–”

“You don’t have to apologise,” Gus says gently, pulling Johnny’s chin up so he can kiss him. “I want to help.”

“You – you can’t,” Johnny says, sounding, again, surprised and bewildered. “It was just– I mean, I can’t even remember it.”

“I thought it might have been Noelle.”

“Yeah,” Johnny says slowly. “It… yeah, I think she might have been in it. I thought it was, you know, Zoë, but I think it was her. And it was cold and… something… a kitten or something. I really don’t remember,” and, ridiculously, he  _still_  sounds apologetic.

“Snow and blood, you said,” Gus says quietly.

“Oh. Yeah. Snow, yeah. Snowstorm. I thought – I got lost. There was blood… it was still warm. There was… something… I can’t remember.”

“Something dead? Zoë?”

“No, it wasn’t Zoë,” Johnny says immediately. “It was Noelle. I thought it was Zoë. From behind, I mean. They – their hair – they look – it’s a lot alike.”

Oh, Jesus: Gus feels like he’s been punched in the gut. Double whammy: Noelle looks like Zoë  _and_  Johnny’d picked up on Gus not trusting her. Maybe  _he_ should have seen to it that Johnny’d gotten good and drunk last night; Johnny’s self-medication evidently hadn’t gone quite far enough.

“I can’t remember,” Johnny’s saying. “What it was about, I mean.”

“Never mind,” Gus says, pulling Johnny close again and pulling up the duvet with his other hand. “It’s all right. You just… you don’t have to worry about waking me up, that’s all. I want you to know that.”

“Yeah,” Johnny says quietly. He’s not convinced, but Gus doesn’t care: the main thing is that it’s out in the open and if he keeps repeating it, eventually Johnny’ll get the idea that Gus wants all of him, in every way, hot and cold and everything in between.

“I don’t really want to reopen this can of worms,” he says against Johnny’s mouth, “but I’m a priest. People wake me up. It’s part of the job.”

“For important things,” Johnny says, almost inaudibly.

“Yeah,” Gus says, pressing a kiss on the side of Johnny’s mouth. “I can’t see how this would really be news to you, old son, not after – four days, is it now? – but you’re one of them.”

Johnny laughs, which is what Gus wanted; and Gus relaxes, satisfied (enough) to let it drop (for now), enough to let himself drift off into a light doze, letting the tension seep out of his stomach muscles and the back of his neck. And he’s sure that Johnny’s doing the same; draped partly atop Gus, he’s relaxed, almost limp, and it feels so good to have him there, just like this, that Gus really could consider staying in bed forever.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Couch and freezing and important things and they’re all jumbled together in the warm dark huddle under the mountain, where the huldufólk’s sharing his bed with Johnny. There’s light coming from somewhere that Johnny can’t see: maybe they make their own light too. It’s enough to see shadows, comfortingly still in the dimness; and he wonders if huldufólk have hulducats, or dogs, or – and he almost laughs out loud – sheep. He stretches out a hand to touch a nearby shape and it feels rough and heavy under his palm, but not frozen, just cool.

Not dead then, not frozen, unless this is heaven, and if it is, Pastor’ll be really  _really_  shocked; and he thinks he needs to remember this to tell Gus because it will make Gus laugh.

He aches, not quite all over: his chest, like he’s been holding his breath, or his lungs were seared by the cold wind; and his lower back, like he’s been lifting or dragging something too heavy; and his ass, which is queer… a stretched kind of ache, leftover tingles of a burn; and he wonders if the huldufólk is queer too or if it’s just Johnny.

The warmth is gone; he didn’t feel the huldufólk move or leave but maybe they vanish, just like fog, or a whisper in the dark; and he shivers and tries to curl up in the leftover warmth, groping vainly for the blanket: maybe that vanished too, or maybe there never was one, just the huldufólk.

A soft snuffle nearby has him suddenly wide awake, wide awake and shivering: the light’s faded too and he can only see grey now, grey and black; and was it huldufólk at all, or dwarves, or worse? Is he on the threshold of Eljudnir, is this Gnipa’s cave, are there wolves here?

There’s a glimmer of paler grey, and he gets to his feet as quiet as he can. Suddenly there’s a thin, breathless wail: a baby? A kitten? As he moves towards the sound, he starts to hear other noises: breathing, heavy breathing, a broken-off moan, the sound of flesh on flesh…

And the wail comes again, weaker.

There’s light from somewhere but no fire: the light’s cold and glassy, like winter sunlight through hoarfrost on glass. At first he thinks it’s Gus, Gus and Noelle; then the man raises his head and he sees it’s Louis.

And Noelle, on her back, legs spread high and wide, Louis between them; and Johnny tries to tear his eyes away and can’t. She sees him, behind Louis, and she smiles and says his name; and her voice isn’t Noelle’s.

There are marks on Louis’ back, smeared handprints; and with a sickening lurch of his stomach Johnny realizes it’s blood.

The kitten mews again and he looks down, finally able to look away: there’s a whitish lump in the shadow of the… bed they’re on, a slab of rock covered with dingy furs.

“Just the – the kitten,” he says, not wanting to look at them again. “I just – I heard it –”

“Oh, Johnny,” and the voice is Zoë’s and so is the laugh, “don’t worry so much.”

“It’s just – it’s cold, okay?” He keeps his eyes fixed on the lump, not wanting to see Zoë, not wanting to see Noelle, either, with Zoë’s voice, and he reaches down. His fingers touch clammy plastic, cold wet fur; but then it moves. He tries to pick it up but it’s slippery and cold, and it’s moving, and the plastic bag it was on is stuck to it.

The cord’s still attached and now he feels the bile in his throat: it’s shriveled and brown but it’s still there.

“It’ll be all right, Johnny,” Zoë says while he’s trying to figure out how to hold it: the kitten’s moving its head toward him, its mouth opening soundlessly, looking – oh God, looking for food.

“I – I think it’s hungry,” he says, fighting off waves of nausea. “Did – did you feed it? Does it have a mother?”

Zoë laughs, or maybe it’s really Noelle, and Louis moans; and he doesn’t want to see them but they’re kissing now, ignoring him, ignoring the kitten and its feeble noises. He stumbles backwards one step, two, then hears the snuffle behind him again, so he freezes.

And now it’s Zoë, golden and smiling and stretching out an arm to him; and Louis is looking too, smiling and beckoning him.

There’s blood on their hands and blood on Johnny’s; and the kitten’s starting to mew again.

“Just leave it,” Zoë says, sounding impatient. “It’ll stop soon. They always do.”

And the light is brighter now and he looks around the room; and there are bundles against the walls, so many, small pale lumps, and the kitten in his hands isn’t mewing any more and he’s not sure if it’s breathing, and if it died in his hands the blood’s his too. He feels the tears on his face, dripping down onto the kitten; and it moves again and makes another noise.

There’s hot breath on the back of his neck: he’s not sure if it’s a troll or a dwarf or the huldufólk but he doesn’t feel scared, just sick. Without looking, he gets to his knees and puts the kitten down, pushing it behind him: it’s a better death than cold and alone. He feels no menace there, not behind him: it’s all in front of him. Just as slowly, he gets to his feet again and goes over to the bed. Zoë is still laughing at him, her arms wrapped around Louis, who’s collapsed on her. Johnny shakes his shoulder: Louis wouldn’t, couldn’t let the kitten, the kittens, die –

And Louis is cold too, cold and stiff, and when Johnny touches him, he slides off Zoë onto the floor, his eyes open and glassy. Noelle doesn’t even seem to notice, just smiles and reaches for Johnny, and her hands are covered with blood, fresh blood, dripping from her fingers.

He stumbles backwards, remembering the kitten at the last second, crouching to feel for it on the floor, not daring to take his eyes off her, to turn his back on her.

The warmth is back, pulling him back, and he struggles against it: huldufólk, dwarf, troll, whatever it is it has to understand that there’s a kitten here too, that he can’t just leave it –

“Let me go, let me go!” And then he remembers it doesn’t understand, and he tries to remember the right words himself: “Láta mig fara! Gætir þú hjálpað mér? Þóknast hjálpa…”

“Dear God in  _heaven_ ,” someone’s saying and he’s grateful, so grateful: someone to say a prayer for them, for the kittens, for Louis; and then he remembers Eric and he struggles again, because he’s scaring Eric and he has to keep her away, has to keep Eric away, Eric can’t know, can’t see this, can’t see the blood, and it’s all everywhere now –

“Johnny,  _Johannes_ ,” and the huldufólk  _is_  back, arms around Johnny and he gives in to the warmth, just for a minute, just to get warm again.

“Shhh,” and he’s not sure which of them is saying it. He’s  _trying_  to say it: they can’t wake Eric, Eric can’t know, he can’t see the blood, the kittens, the –

“He won’t,” says the huldufólk. “He won’t, Johnny, I’ll take care of it. I’ll take care of everything.”

“I didn’t – I don’t even know,” Johnny says, holding the huldufólk just as tightly as he’s being held. “It’s… it’s not an it, but I couldn’t tell, the – the cord was still on and – and I didn’t look, I think it was dying, I think it’s dead, please don’t let the wolf eat it, please–”

“I  _won’t_ ,” and the voice is rich and warm and Johnny closes his eyes and falls into it. “I’ll take care of it. Sleep,  _schlaf_ ,  _lieber Johannes_ ,  _sei ruhig, schlaf_.”

“Thank you, thank you,” Johnny whispers and the huldufólk’s magic is pulling him down and away into blessed warmth and darkness, the voice rising up around him like a curtain or a shield, the words almost familiar:

> _I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills: from whence cometh my help.  
>  My help cometh even from the Lord: who hath made heaven and earth.  
> He will not suffer thy foot to be moved: and he that keepeth thee will not sleep.  
> Behold, he that keepeth Israel: shall neither slumber nor sleep.  
> The Lord himself is thy keeper: the Lord is thy defence upon thy right hand;  
> So that the sun shall not burn thee by day: neither the moon by night.  
> The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil: yea, it is even he that shall keep thy soul._
> 
>  _The Lord shall preserve thy going out, and thy coming in: from this time forth for evermore.  
> _

And he tries to say “Amen” when the huldufólk does, and he wants to ask if he was there when God made heaven and earth, but his head is fuzzy and so is his mouth. Then there are warm lips pressing against his, warm breath filling his mouth, and he sighs gratefully, giving it back. The blood is gone; and he can sleep.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Will  _not_  sleep,” Gus repeats quietly, his lips moving against Johnny’s ear, and even though he’s sure he’s squeezing Johnny uncomfortably tight Johnny doesn’t seem to mind at all, isn’t even  _moving_.

He was crying, just  _crying_ , silently, when Gus woke, and he was crouched, no,  _huddled_  at the edge of the bed, his face wet with tears; and when Gus touched his shoulder, a sob broke free. He fought Gus, fought Gus pulling him back into the bed: there was a kitten, possibly more than one, possibly dead, and (possibly) wolves; and Eric couldn’t know.

Gus feels tears well up again in his own eyes and he presses his hand flat against Johnny’s chest, feeling Johnny’s heartbeat, slow and steady, vibrating through his palm.

The one thing Gus is sure of, now, is that Zoë had no idea who Johnny really was, or what he was.

He’s not sure himself, of course, but at least he recognizes there’s something there he doesn’t understand.

His eyelids are heavy: to keep himself awake, he repeats the Lord’s Prayer in French, then in Russian, then in German, which he whispers out loud because Johnny’s Icelandic is closer to German than anything Gus knows, and the German seems to calm him when nothing English will.

But still he’s startled when Johnny moves, moves and mumbles, and then responds: “Faðir vor, þú sem ert á himnum. Helgist þitt nafn, til komi þitt ríki, verði þinn vilji, svo á jörðu sem á himni.” By the time Johnny gets to “Gef oss í dag vort daglegt brauð,” Gus has caught up, is saying it with him in German, some of the words close enough to make up for the grammar:  _Unser täglich Brot gibt uns heute_.

And he repeats it in English, when they get there: “ _sondern erlöse uns von dem Übel_ , deliver  _him_  from evil,” adding his own prayer, heartfelt as it hasn’t been in many a day, that Johnny himself can be delivered from this evil, the “amen” echoed, again, by Johnny.

Gus stares at the ceiling for a few minutes, his jaw set, wondering what, or how much, or even if Johnny will remember; wondering how the wolves figure in; wondering if Johnny meant kittens, and, if so why; and what, if anything, Gus can do about any of it.

He’s not used to feeling  _helpless_.

The sky’s lightening; he wonders what time it is but can’t see the clock. It occurs to him that room service would be a great idea, but he’s afraid to leave Johnny alone for even a second: two nightmares in one night are two too many, and he might not have been far off with the handcuff idea.

He tries rolling onto his back, and Johnny follows him, as naturally as breathing; so far, so good.

The phone’s within easy reach and he only has to poke the buttons twice before he gets the operator. He orders in French, as quietly as he can, figuring that that will keep Johnny asleep more so than English would; and he even gets the time out of the operator: close on six. He asks for it to be delivered around nine and then hangs up and rolls back over to pull Johnny close again, wrapping his arms and even a leg around him so that even if he falls asleep – and he probably will – Johnny won’t have any doubt that he’s  _here_ , at least.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, Kalena should have a co-author credit; and so should TheAmusedOne. Thank you, thank you thank you.
> 
> Shrewreader put up with my all-too-common freakouts with kindness and bracing common sense. And, last but not least, thank you to Maygra, who gave me the privilege of betaing some of her phenomenal Supernatural fiction and thus providing the impetus for Johnny's nightmares.
> 
> Originally published: 2006


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